The Devil's Mistress
by xfphile
Summary: The devil never works alone. Then again . . . neither do angels. And the world might not survive the battle.
1. The Abduction Club

A/N: This is officially a first: I have written a sequel. This follows _Devil in the Light_ so if you haven't read it, this story won't make a lot of sense.

I'd also like to give a shout-out and huge thanks to phryneandjack, who gave such a wonderful review of _Devil in the Light_ on her (his?) blog and called it amazing; you actually made me blush.

As always, this was beta'd by the superbly incomparable Firebird9 (thanks, babe!).

Finally, the key: /*/*/*/*/ = POV change; /*/*/ = scene change/same POV

As ever, concrit is love.

Enjoy!

/*/*/*/*/

_paindarkworryfearacheconcernOW_

Groggily blinking his way back to awareness, Jack Robinson took an incautious breath. The resulting agony had him hanging on to consciousness by sheer force of will and he desperately swallowed back nausea, afraid that his head would actually fall off otherwise. A few more rapid blinks cleared his vision enough to see that he hadn't gone blind; it really was that dark. A second after that, he had to fight down a surge of panic at the realization that he wasn't at home or in his office. In fact – where was he? He wasn't willing to try sitting up yet, but a cautious twist of his neck proved bearable and Jack gently turned his head, seeing with growing unease that he was in a small, dimly-lit room with no windows and what appeared to be a heavy, solid door. An itch at his temple suddenly made itself known and Jack absently reached up to rub at it – only to go still when his arm was stopped after just a few inches of movement. Carefully looking down, he sucked in a shallow breath at the sight of a thick, dull-grey shackle clamped tightly around his left wrist. A quick glance to his other side showed him that his right hand was free, so he scratched his forehead, absently wincing at the brief stab of pain, and took a rapid inventory of his body.

The only restraint he saw was on his left hand, but he'd apparently been ruthlessly subdued, if the pain in his ribs, abdomen, and back – also, his mercilessly-throbbing head and, because there had to be a cliché somewhere, his aching right knee – was any indication. Frowning, Jack shifted on his 'mattress' in a vain attempt to find a comfortable position and thought back, trying to remember what had happened. His immediate memory was alarmingly blank, but he forced himself to think through the headache and was able to pull memories from at least four days earlier. He'd been at home with Phryne, having successfully coaxed her into staying in that evening, when a call from Hawkins had put an early end to their night. It seemed that Sergeant Page had been returning from a robbery call with his new constable, Hollingsworth (a transfer in from the East Central station), when he'd been set upon and abducted by three medium-sized men wearing what Hollingsworth had described as very plain brown clothing, hats, high-collared workman's coats, and standard-issue brown boots. And even though Jack and most of the officers he'd had available at the time had scoured the area, they'd found no trace of Page and no clue as to his whereabouts.

Mason had disappeared two days later, with the only lead coming from a regular at the bar he'd been passing. The information was the same as Hollingsworth's, the only difference being two kidnappers instead of three.

With two of his people missing, Jack had elected to spend the next few days in his flat (which he'd decided to keep long before they'd finalized their relationship) rather than Phryne's home, and she had gotten upset. Once he'd worked past his own initial anger, Jack had been surprised at her reaction; he'd rather thought she'd be pleased that he had a bolt hole – if for no other reason than to give him someplace to go if (when) they had an epic row (or it was that Time of Month, if Rosie was any indication; thus far, it had proven to be a wise precaution for him). On top of that, he'd assumed that Phryne, who had never lived full-time with a romantic attachment, would feel a bit stifled at the implied permanency that him moving in lock, stock, and barrel would create.

He'd forgotten he was dealing with Phryne Fisher. As she herself had told him (on more than one occasion), once she decided to do something, she was in all the way. So, having decided to be with Jack, she had evidently decided to _be with Jack._ As such, him having what she rather contemptuously called 'one foot out the door' was creating friction. It didn't help matters that he hadn't actually used it for anything but a clothes storage unit for nearly the entire time they'd been together (That Time of the Month aside), and Phryne had had enough. She'd understood his reasoning for the first month or so, but when they'd meshed so easily from the beginning that even her Red-Raggers were surprised (and hadn't _that _been a fun conversation?) – and with no signs of trouble on that front in their immediate future – her patience had run dry.

And that might be part of the problem, Jack suddenly considered. Things had, for the most part, gone so smoothly with their romantic partnership that any issues or trouble were very likely being blown out of proportion in an effort to compensate for the lack of – tension? trouble? problems? – well, whatever you wanted to call it. Jack loved Phryne beyond all reason, but he was the first to admit that she liked to argue and debate, and frequently just for the hell of it. She also had a tendency toward 'big,' which, like as not, was going to drive him to insanity, because Jack _wasn't _a fan of fighting, arguing, or unnecessary confrontation in general, especially over something as trivial as the toes of his shoes being pointed away from the wall instead of toward it.

(that being said, he'd found that 'arguing' for the sole purpose of 'making up' was an entirely different subject and he'd been a very attentive pupil)

To make matters worse, Jack was unable to articulate just why he was so reluctant to give up his bachelor lodgings . . . especially when the only reason he could even give himself was that he liked having a place that belonged only to him. He knew he was being a touch ridiculous, but then again, Rosie had never wanted to be in his space the way Phryne did, and while most of the time he loved it, sometimes he just wanted to be alone. And yes, he knew – no, he _hoped_ – that all he had to do was say so, but he wasn't the most loquacious of men, much less eloquent, and he had no desire to hurt Phryne by telling her to leave him be, damn it, he needed space. Also, he was still unsure that vanishing into a seldom-used room of the house the way Phryne did when she was feeling anti-social (which happened more often than he'd expected) would guarantee his privacy. After all, the house was Phryne's and while her household had overwhelmingly accepted him, he still felt tagged as 'guest' instead of 'resident.'

Which, now that he thought about it, was patently absurd. He'd already made this mistake once, not telling her what he was thinking, and since neither of them had acquired the ability to read minds since then, clearly he needed to talk to her. If said conversation resulted in her telling him to leave, well . . . well. He wasn't nearly so weak as that, to walk away at the first serious argument (and Phryne was hot-headed enough to try it, because this was just as new for her – more so, actually – and she had gotten somewhat accustomed to pulling strings and watching men eagerly dance to her will). Neither would he collapse at the first real objection to their union. Prudence Stanley had found that out to her unpleasant surprise and extreme regret, shortly after they'd returned from Inverness.

(Jack had to fight back a smile at the memory. She had doubtless thought that he, being a mere policeman, would be cowed at facing Mrs Prudence Stanley, chairwoman of this, board member of that, and Phryne's high-society aunt; apparently, she'd never met her niece. In addition, George Sanderson was his former father-in-law (and current boss). He had to be worked up to it, but once the mindset was reached, George could out-snob her without even breaking a sweat. That was actually a meeting he'd like to see, for the sole purpose of watching the show.)

In any event, they'd been at odds and Jack had found himself staying later and later at the station, because heading back to his quiet, empty lodgings held little appeal, but neither did he want to be harangued or badgered the second he stepped through the door. That had been – Jack felt another spike of panic when he realized that he didn't know what day it was . . . or long he'd been out. One thing was clear, though: whoever had taken him was being very selective about their abductees. Mason had disappeared two days after Page, and Jack had been ambushed (by four men, he remembered now, and felt an odd pride alongside the worry) two days after that (right outside the station, actually, which would have been more alarming but for the fact that he'd practically moved into his office and hadn't left it unless he was checking a lead or going back to his flat, giving them only one real pattern to work from. Well, that and it had been after seven before he'd finally given in and left for the day.). The thought of Mason crystallized the niggling suspicion he'd been harbouring since shortly after Page was abducted and Jack had to exercise considerable restraint to keep from verbalizing his thoughts.

They'd been taken by the other side of that damned slaver's ring. The 'client' side.

Despite himself, Jack shivered. This was not good. Wayne Nelson was crafty, intelligent, and cunning, and he'd successfully operated a wide-scale slave ring out of the port cities of southern Australia for over three years before Phryne had stumbled across it. Even then, it had taken the combined forces of Melbourne and Inverness to bring it down. During the subsequent pre-trial preparations, the overriding concern was getting the members of the ring tried, convicted, and either in prison for life or hanged, depending on the actual crimes committed. But in the four months since the initial takedown, it seemed that no one – the police included, damn it all to hell – had considered the buyers. They'd all been so focused on bringing the kidnappers to justice that not one person had stopped to wonder about the reaction from the powerful, wealthy people who had been running the receiving end – and whose product source had suddenly dried up.

Apparently, they weren't taking it well.

Jack counted himself grateful that he'd been abducted instead of outright killed, because that meant a small chance of survival . . . though it was early days yet. He might well end up wishing for death before this was over.

_Yes, Jack, of course I'm going to leave you languishing in a cell – never mind removed from Australia – without tearing the country apart. Because I'm so good at waiting passively._

Phryne's voice was so clear that Jack looked wildly around, suddenly terrified that she'd been captured as well. When he saw nothing but pitted and scarred grey walls and a filthy floor, he fell back against the wall of his cell and let out a soft gasp of mingled relief and pain. Even as he thanked God that she wasn't here, Jack was aware of a new undercurrent of fear, because once Phryne knew he was missing, she would move heaven and earth to find him (and she would upend hell, too, if she thought it would do any good), and she would give no thought at all to herself or her safety. Collins had no chance of standing against her. Hawkins might – assuming neither man had been taken – but he knew Phryne, he knew about Jack's relationship with her, and he had a profound appreciation for her skills. Like as not, he'd be the one holding her coat while she ransacked the building.

In spite of the situation, Jack gave a faint smile at the thought. He was scared out of his wits that Phryne would get hurt while looking for him, but he also knew that she was extremely capable and had finally, once they'd both come to terms with their feelings and what that would mean for an actual relationship to work, acknowledged the fact that accepting help (or asking for it. though that was admittedly rare; one couldn't stop the rain from falling, after all, and Phryne was a proud woman) wasn't a weakness, and it wasn't a slur against her abilities. So Jack knew full well that Phryne would find him come hell or high water, and be as safe as it was possible for _her_ to be while she did it. If she had to raise Cain (and Abel, Eve, and Adam) in the process, then so be it.

And if she didn't find Jack (or have him returned to her) in pristine condition, there would be at _least_ three explosions. Because they were talking about the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, he meant that in every possible way. He might wish otherwise, for her sake, but Jack knew she would come for him, so he blew out a quietly-resigned sigh and did his best to relax, because if the opportunity arose for him to effect his own rescue, he needed to be as rested and prepared as possible. Whether he escaped or was found, he would go home to her. In the meantime . . . he'd survived the war, he'd risen to the rank of Detective Inspector at a comparatively young age, he'd weathered having George Sanderson as both father-in-law and boss, Prudence Stanley was his _de facto _mother-in-law, and he was Phryne Fisher's husband (in all but actual ceremony).

Did these people really think they could scare him?

/*/*/*/*/

_17 hours later_

"Miss Fisher, I assure you, we're doing everything we can."

Senior Sergeant Will Hawkins winced. Phryne Fisher didn't like that answer on a good day, but with Inspector Robinson missing . . . she was already several steps past on edge and didn't do 'being placated' at all, status of the day aside. This was not a good day. Hollingsworth was about to get his head (or other, more sensitive parts) handed to him and Will debated with himself for a few seconds before reluctantly deciding to intervene. The boy was new to the area and didn't (yet) know any better, so it was rather unfair to let him be killed right off the bat for kicking a hornet's nest he didn't know was there, entertaining though it would have been.

"Constable," he rumbled as he came around the corner, giving Miss Fisher a nod before catching the young man's gaze. "I've got this; go see if Collins has found anything."

"Yes, Sergeant," Hollingsworth said gratefully, vanishing around the corner like the hound of the Baskervilles was chasing him. Will watched him go with mild amusement before turning his attention to Miss Fisher, who looked not at all repentant.

"Will," she began, but said nothing else when he held up a hand and gestured her into the inspector's office.

"I know," he started, holding her gaze as he seated her in the nearest chair. "But he's right; we're doing everything we can. We just have the bad luck to be dealing with competent people."

She huffed in annoyance and made an annoyed gesture, causing the delicate material of her green scarf to flap about for a few seconds.

"It's been almost two days, Will!" she exclaimed, only just remembering to keep from shouting (she was understandably upset, but Will strongly suspected that with very little effort, she could be heard giving orders on the deck of a navy ship in the midst of a hurricane, should the situation call for it). "And with Mason and Page missing as well, it _has_ to have something to do with that bloody slave ring."

Will had come to the same conclusion – which was why he'd instituted a rule that no officer who'd been involved in that operation leave the station until their missing men were found or the culprits apprehended. Food and clothes were brought to them and the situation was currently tolerable (well, for a given value of 'tolerable'; 'barely' was probably a better word), but it wouldn't remain so for much longer. But before he could even think of what to say to Miss Fisher, she proceeded to mentally slap him upside the head.

(Will had a much greater appreciation for the fact that Jack Robinson was not only still sane, but _thriving_ in a relationship with her)

"What did the Inverness officers say?" she asked, and Will just . . . stopped. The look on his face seemed to be the only answer she needed, because her eyes went wide and she leaped to her feet, flushed with indignation.

"No one's contacted them?!" she demanded furiously, cornering him against the desk and pinning him with a hard glare. "Did you forget they were _there?!"_

There were several answers Will could have given to this, but he chose both the better part of valour and the honest truth.

"It isn't that we forgot they were there," he began cautiously, leaning back just a tad (alright, several 'tads') in a vain effort to get away from her completely justifiable anger. "It's just – well, we're the police. People don't generally target us, at least not this specifically, and so it's not something we readily consider. That being said," he continued, astonished that she made no effort to speak (though her glare did kick up a notch), "it's an excellent suggestion. If you'll step back, I'll call them now and see if we can't pool our resources."

She gave him a long, searching look for several seconds before nodding and stepping away. Her eyes never left his as she settled herself in her chair and Will didn't dare breathe until he was out in the hall. No wonder the inspector let her sit in on (or run) so many interrogations! The devil himself would be hard-pressed to lie to her, never mind refuse to give her something she wanted.

Collins' worried look greeted him as he rounded the corner by the front desk and he did his best to allay the younger man's fears with an upbeat, "Might have a lead, Collins. Hand me the phone?"

The constable's face was ridiculously easy to read as he obeyed, but he'd grown up quite a bit in the past four months and Will watched with approval as he schooled himself to wait for an explanation. There had a lot of angry muttering in the station, questioning why Inspector Robinson had chosen Hugh Collins as his personal constable after he'd promoted Richard Mason, but his behaviour during and since the takedown of that slave ring had quieted most of the doubts, and it was a generally-accepted fact that Collins was well on his way to being a fine officer.

The sound of the operator greeting him pulled Will's attention back to the reason for his call and he took a deep breath after requesting the Inverness Central station. He still didn't know how to tell Miss Fisher, but they had no leads and the trail was getting colder with each passing minute. If Inverness couldn't help them, then it was unlikely their missing men would ever be found.

"Inverness Central, Sergeant Kingston speaking," a dark tenor suddenly said, startling him. But only for a moment, and then he found himself letting out a relived sigh. This man had been part of the task force, so he wouldn't need to be spoon-fed the situation.

"How are you, Sergeant?" he asked in genuine curiosity laced with a touch of apprehension; this man had also been present when Inspector Robinson had nearly killed Nelson after he'd been arrested and he hadn't appreciated his own inspector's handling of the situation. He'd eventually been brought around but . . .

"I'm doing well," the other man replied cautiously, his own curiosity palpable. "May I ask who I'm speaking with?"

Feeling like a perfect prat, Will coughed and said, "I'm sorry, Sergeant; it's Will Hawkins, senior sergeant at City South in Melbourne."

There was a very long moment (or four) of silence. The operation might have one of the most successful jobs in a decade of Australian police history – and to date, the most successful joint operation in either station's existence – but rival police stations (especially those in differing cities) would never be 'easy' with each other. There would always be some tension.

It was this realization that prompted Will's next statement.

"Is Inspector Sheridan available, Sergeant? I'm afraid we have a problem."

And with that sentence, he'd just won the award for 'Understatement of the Year.'

/*/*/*/*/

Detective Inspector Wesley Sheridan couldn't decide whether he wanted to shoot every bureaucrat currently living or force them to do – in_ triplicate_ – the unnecessary paperwork they mandated for loyal, hardworking officers of the law whose main goal in life was doing their job. The number of trees sacrificed to those fools' need to feel important was beyond ridiculous (no, really; he kept expecting them to create a form to be used for opening a door) and would try the patience of Job. He'd only just started his most recent case's report and was already hoping (wishing?) for a murder. Or three.

As such, his senior sergeant's voice calling him to the phone had him on his feet and out the door before his chair finished spinning around. Kingston's carefully blank expression gave him pause, but the other man handed him the receiver and left before Wesley could ask. He blinked in genuine surprise before lifting the receiver to his ear and saying, "This is Inspector Sheridan."

"Oh, thank God," a voice that he vaguely recognized breathed with obvious relief. "It's Will Hawkins, from City South in Melbourne."

Sheridan went still. Though he liked Jack Robinson well enough, and had great respect for him and his men, hearing 'City South, Melbourne' would always make him twitch. Just a little.

"And how can we help you, Sergeant?" he inquired cautiously, noting with mild surprise that he actually felt a little nervous, though for the life of him he couldn't have said why.

There was a brief pause and Sheridan frowned, suddenly wondering why it wasn't Jack on the phone. Before he could ask, the other man took a deep breath and said, "Over the past week, Inspector Robinson and two other men who were involved in our joint operation have been abducted. I was wondering if you've . . . had . . . "

He trailed off, clearly realizing that there was no possible 'good' way to finish that sentence, and Sheridan actually gaped at the phone for a minute before he pulled himself together.

"No," he said slowly. "We have not."

And he had to close his eyes then, because he _knew_, even if the other man hadn't said it. Damn it. When he'd asked for something to stave off the paperwork, he hadn't meant for God to send him to bloody Melbourne!

But if three of Robinson's men were missing, then it was just a matter of time before his people were targeted as well. And that? That wasn't happening. So he'd go and save Jack's sorry arse, and then he'd never complain about paperwork again.

(well, until the next triplicate stack of forms he had to fill out so he could order pens for the office)

"I'll get my men together and we'll be on our way as soon as we can," he told Hawkins, saving him the embarrassment of asking. "Can you get us into a hotel?"

There was a startled beat of silence before the other man, with well-hidden surprise (and much less hidden relief), said, "Of course, How many rooms?"

Sheridan gave that a moment of thought before deciding to bring the sergeants who had been on the original task force; he'd prefer the entire group, but taking seven officers (eight, including him) to Melbourne for something as . . . mundane . . . as finding three missing men (fellow officers though they were) would bring questions and scrutiny that he didn't particularly want to deal with.

"Three, with two beds each," he answered. There would be five of them and that would give him both a private room and a makeshift bullpen if need be.

"Will do, Sir," Hawkins assured him before pausing again. Sheridan waited patiently, sensing something else behind this silence.

"I appreciate your assistance, Inspector," the other man began, obviously choosing his words carefully. "And I'm sorry to put it on you. But whoever did this is just as clever as the original ring and we have, quite literally, nothing. No clues, no evidence, and half a lead." A heavy sigh preceded his next statement – which chilled Sheridan to the bone.

"Miss Fisher thinks that the client for that ring is behind this, as revenge for losing such a lucrative form of commerce."

Sheridan swallowed hard; he hadn't considered that. But even as the thought occurred, he had an idea.

"It's a good thought, and very likely accurate," he said. "And give me about three hours to get to Melbourne, if you will. I have a few people I need to talk to."

This time the silence was knowing and Sheridan was reminded that Jack Robinson didn't hire (or keep) stupid people.

"Good luck, Sir," was all Hawkins said. "And Godspeed. We'll be waiting."

Giving a grim smile, Sheridan snapped his fingers at the constable currently on duty to summon him.

"We'll be there, Sergeant. And have everything you've got ready, because I don't think we can afford to wait."

"Yes, Sir," Hawkins almost barked, and Sheridan had to hold back a thoroughly inappropriate snicker; he could still pull off a parade ground voice when he needed to.

"See you in a few hours," he told the other man before hanging up and looking at Hansen.

"Call Kingston, Hopkins, Graham, and Caffrey to my office, now," he ordered the boy. "Then go requisition five weapons and two cars."

His eyes wide, Hansen stuttered out, "Yes, Sir!" as Sheridan headed back to his office. Once there, he dropped heavily into his chair and buried his face in his hands. The client. God. He really didn't know whether or not to hope Jack and his men were still alive. Despite the thorough records Nelson had kept, the ICPC had only found a fraction of the abductees . . . but he would never forget them, even if he lived forever. The trauma, the horror, the degradation . . . it was as much a part of them now as the blood in their veins, and they would never fully recover. Sheridan wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy.

A knock on the door broke his train of thought and he took a deep breath before calling his men in. They weren't going to like this (hell, he didn't like it), but they were some of his best, and if anyone was going to help find Robinson and his men, it would be this lot.

Three curious expressions and one mutinous look greeted him and he held back a sigh. Kingston had never quite forgiven him for making them culpable in his desperate bid to keep Jack from killing Wayne Nelson and it was rapidly becoming an actual problem. Sheridan didn't want to transfer Greg, but if the man didn't grow up and accept what had happened, he wasn't going to have much choice.

But this wasn't the time and Sheridan mentally shook his head, pushing that issue to the back of his mind. He looked each of his men in the eye before outlining the state of affairs and noting with approval that all four of them fully appreciated the gravity of the situation – to the point that no objection was raised when he told them that they were heading to Melbourne in about two hours.

"Go home and pack for a few days," he instructed them in conclusion. "We'll be at a hotel, so you won't need your full wardrobe" (that was mostly aimed at Caffrey) "and be back here no later than two. Go," he added when they failed to move. Graham, Caffrey, and Hopkins obeyed, but Kingston hesitated, only to change his mind at the last minute and leave without a word.

Alone in his office, Sheridan took a fortifying breath. The easy part was over. Now came the challenge. With a perfectly steady hand, he picked up the receiver in his office and asked to be connected to the city gaol.

When the front desk guard picked up, he took one more deep breath.

"This is DI Wesley Sheridan. I need to arrange an immediate visit with Wayne Nelson."

God help them all.

/*/*/*/*/

As she waited for Will to return from talking to the Inverness Central station, Phryne Fisher exerted all the discipline she'd found in the bloody, burned fields of France and forcibly shoved her fear for Jack into a mental steel box before triple locking it and throwing it into the back of a walk-in closet for good measure. They would find him. They'd find him and he would be unharmed and everything would be fine.

Please, God. Let everything be fine.

But Phryne had too much experience with life and she couldn't sustain the fairytale. At the very least, he'd be injured because Jack would not go quietly. And though the very thought made her grit her teeth in anger, Phryne was pragmatic. She could live with 'injured'; it could be recovered from. But if Jack was _damaged_ in any way, shape, form, or fashion, then the bastards who had taken him needed to make their peace with God bec—

No. They needed to make their peace with the_ devil, _because she wouldn't _**let**_ heaven be an option for them.

The violence of her thoughts might have alarmed another woman, but Phryne Fisher knew herself very well and while she could be (and was) called many things, 'naïve' didn't make the list. It didn't even rate an honourable mention. Past experience had taught her to be leery of letting people get too close, but those few who made it past the gauntlet were guarded ferociously and for life.

And she loved Jack too well, had worked too hard to get him – and even harder to keep him, because their romantic partnership was going surprisingly smoothly for the most part, but they had wild differing personalities in several respects and those differences clashed on what seem like an hourly basis sometimes – to let a group of filthy, despicable human beings who not only profited from the misery and suffering of their fellow man, but _enjoyed _it, take him away from her.

No, the only way Jack Robinson was leaving her was by his own volition and with a legitimate reason.

Though . . . this flat he'd been keeping was disturbing. Given how deeply and desperately he'd wanted to be with her, his insistence on keeping a backup was surprising. And – hurtful. She hadn't treated him well at times, before (and while, actually) she realized that she'd actually fallen in love with him, but by his own admission, he hadn't been nearly as forthcoming as he should have been, either, and she'd thought they'd worked those issues out.

And what truly annoyed her about the situation was the fact that Jack almost never _used_ the damn flat! In the four months since Inverness (not counting this case), he'd spent exactly three nights and two – no, four, days at his bachelor's lodgings. In the beginning, she'd approved of his caution, because they'd both painfully learned that 'love' did not always equate to 'harmony,' and it only made sense to have a safety net, so to speak.

Now, that being said, she still didn't know what had driven him to spend those days and nights alone; he'd never volunteered the information and while as a rule, Phryne wasn't afraid to speak her mind, she had discovered that she wasn't sure she wanted to hear his reasons – because this new relationship with Jack had taught her something that had quite likely taken a year off her life from absolute shock.

Phryne was afraid that she wasn't enough for Jack.

Oh, not in the bedroom. No, even if Jack were the cheating type – which would have rendered them getting together moot, assuming the world ending didn't take care of the problem first – their lovemaking was incomparable. He was perfectly willing to try anything twice (which she'd wondered about until he'd pointed out that he needed to make sure the first time wasn't a fluke; it was such a brilliant philosophy that she'd adopted it on the spot . . . with some truly delicious results) and on those rare occasions that one or both of them didn't care for something, or like a proposed change or addition, no accusations were made or recriminations flung about.

To be sure, disappointment was there, but it was never the center of things. Generally, they would take a few minutes to sigh, pout, or think uncharitable thoughts (depending on what had or hadn't happened), and then move into something they both enjoyed.

Well, or Jack would just kiss her until she couldn't have told you what planet she was on. Her detective inspector was a _glorious_ kisser and loved to do it. The first time she'd let him, he'd kissed her for over an hour before he'd even begun to undress her and the resulting lovemaking had been . . .

It was a very, very good thing she'd sent her household to Queensland for the weekend.

(and she still occasionally received glances that were both scandalized and envious from her neighbor, Mrs Stonewall)

No, what worried Phryne was something more mundane. She wasn't particularly fond of Rosie Robinson _nee_ Sanderson, but she had to admit that on the surface, she was a more suitable choice for Jack than Phryne was: solid, respectable, non-scandalous, and someone who obeyed societal formalities and restrictions, but without being boring or a shrew. Unadventurous, perhaps, but that was not uncommon among the women of her social class.

Due mostly to Jack being who and what he was, Phryne had no issue with toning down some of her more outrageous tendencies if she was aware of the fact that doing otherwise might truly harm him or his reputation, but she refused to bow to what the majority of society deemed appropriate for a woman of her station. Her fear was that Jack – who would never say anything, because he truly did not wish to change her – might come to resent her for putting him beside her in her battles against social convention and the 'just because' excuse to cling to old traditions.

And she was, quite simply, too afraid to ask him, choosing instead to turn her fear into anger. She knew it was wrong, and unfair to Jack, because if she never said anything, how was he to know what was bothering her? He'd said the exact same thing to her that night in the restaurant, and he was absolutely right. Unfortunately, knowing you're being foolish and openly admitting it are two completely different things and, like virtually every other person on earth, Phryne wasn't one for readily admitting her faults.

And so they argued, and squabbled, and picked petty fights because it was easier than dealing with the real issue.

(she would have been shocked speechless to realize that this was actually a fairly common occurrence in long-term relationships, but the overall circumstances of her life were such that a healthy romantic relationship wasn't something she'd really seen, much less observed up close and personal)

Had Jack not disappeared, this likely would have gone on for some ridiculous length of time, and served no purpose other than making everyone involved miserable.

But now that she was facing the reality of what being without him was like, Phryne was damned if she'd let that nonsense continue. She wasn't fine with him keeping his flat, but she owed him the courtesy of asking why he thought it was necessary and, given that his reasons were likely both understandable and reasonable (because Jack's reasons were _always_ understandable and reasonable, to her vexation and her household's amusement), then they'd work out a compromise.

Her musings were broken when Will came back through the door and Phryne glanced at her watch, stunned to realize he'd been gone nearly two hours (which shocked her until she remembered her anger; he might simply have chosen to avoid her until she'd calmed down, which she reluctantly conceded was understandable), before looking up expectantly. His expression was a complicated mix of relief, triumph, and – was that embarrassment? – and she cocked an eyebrow at him, wordlessly demanding an update.

"Inspector Sheridan is coming, and he's bringing help. They'll be here within the hour."

This news had Phryne actually slumping back in the chair while her own relief welled up. She'd gotten to know Wesley Sheridan before she and Jack had returned to Melbourne; she'd insisted on thanking her rescuer in person and Jack had been amenable to it, so they'd spent a few hours with the Inverness DI (remembering how he'd corralled Jack into getting the positively delicious black suit he'd worn that night could still make her smile) and by the time they'd left, Phryne had the same respect and appreciation for the man that Jack did.

And he was coming here to help find Jack, his men, and the people who'd taken them. For the first time in two days, Phryne felt like she could breathe.

She'd come to several conclusions since she'd realized Jack had been taken, some of which were immediately discarded as impractical or wishful thinking, and even a few 'Mad Hatter' scenarios. What was left, however (the buyers of Nelson's ring), had a _feel_ of rightness that she'd learned to trust. She'd first truly noticed it when she'd deduced where Lila Waddington had gone; her leap from 'mayday' to 'mental asylum' would have sent Jack's blood pressure through the roof had he known, because there was no logical reason for it. But the certainty that had burned through her could not be ignored and it had been vindicated when she and Jack had discovered the poor girl suffering in that cell.

That feeling of rightness, that rock-solid certainty, had only presented itself to her a few times – generally she found her answers the same way the police did: by asking questions, doing legwork, and putting the pieces together – and as it had yet to lead her astray, Phryne was not going to ignore it. Hence, her unwavering certainty that their culprits were the other side of the slave ring. But because it was Jack, she was going to do the impossible and rein herself in, so that she was working _with _the police rather than making them run to catch up. Luckily, Will Hawkins was mostly up to the challenge, which eased some of her fear – especially as, unlike Hugh Collins (Phryne loved the boy, she did, but he was still appallingly naïve and could not be broken from the habit of taking things at face value for love or money), Will had a fair bit of experience with the dark side of life and, consequently, was what Phryne called 'An Optimistic Pragmatist.' He understood the world but hadn't been beaten down by it.

Wesley Sheridan, on the other hand, was beyond up for the challenge of keeping pace with her, and though she would be worried until Jack was safe and home, the crippling, sanity-stealing panic had faded. In its place rose a cold rage. Never in her life had Phryne had patience or tolerance for people who refused to accept the consequences of their actions. If you were going to poke a dog with a stick, you didn't get to be angry when it turned around and bit you. If she was right about this being Nelson's client, then they should have been intelligent enough to accept the fact that they'd been caught doing something illegal (and detestable, despicable, and every other derogatory term she could think of) and thankful beyond reason that they – as the buyers – had gotten away with it. Nelson's records had been unbelievably thorough, but no mention of the recipients of his 'sales' had ever been mentioned, not even by his bookkeeper, and so that trail had started cold and immediately gone nowhere.

These revenge kidnappings were going to be the group's downfall, because Phryne cared not one whit about jurisdiction, legalities, or even logistics. If by some miracle they actually managed to remove Jack from Australia, then she would follow them to the ends of the earth.

And if she had to take the world apart in order to find him, well . . .

God had once created the earth in six days. He could do it again.

/*/*/*/*/


	2. The Devil Wears Prada

Sheridan couldn't decide whether he wanted to shower before or after he beat his answers out of Wayne Nelson. Even after being caught quite literally in the act – with the full set of books for his operation at hand – the man (and he used the term loosely) still exuded a smug arrogance that made Sheridan ache to knock a few more of his teeth out. As the guards manhandled their prisoner into the chair opposite his arresting officer, Sheridan found himself utilizing almost all of the discipline he'd learned in the war to keep from giving the crooked-nosed bastard anything. The supercilious smirk that twisted the other man's lips told him he hadn't completely succeeded, but Sheridan was a very skilled poker player, and as such, was able to ignore his own reaction.

"Nelson," he said neutrally, steepling his hands on the table and giving the man an impassive look.

"Inspector," came a rather nasally response, which made Sheridan want to smile; between Miss Fisher and Jack, Wayne Nelson would never be able to take a deep breath through his nose again; even now, four months (and the best efforts – or so he was told – of the prison infirmary) later, it was noticeably canted to the left. Nelson's next sentence sent every last vestige of humour skittering to hide in the rafters and had ice sliding down his spine.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this long-expected visit?" the man purred, his eyes glittering with malicious enjoyment at Sheridan's obvious surprise. "Could it possibly be the fact that your men have begun to disappear? Hmm?" he prompted after several seconds of dead silence.

"Tell me what you know."

Sheridan growled the demand and hated himself for giving Nelson what he wanted, but Jack and his men didn't have time for him to play a gentleman's game. And if his hunch was right, neither did he.

To his utter lack of surprise, Nelson laughed and leaned back, his expression dark with gloating triumph. "And why would I do that, Detective Inspector?" he drawled, gesturing languidly with one manacled hand. "Tell me what, exactly, that will do for me."

And Sheridan knew. He'd get nothing from this man, even if he could promise life in prison instead of the gallows. Hell, he could offer a legitimate full pardon and Nelson would choose to stay in prison, because his was the kind of personality that would gladly cut off his nose to spite his face (or, in this case, would choose thwarting the people who'd out-smarted him over freedom). He'd be better served to bash his head against the cinderblock walls of the prison, if only because the resulting concussion might make him see a clue he'd missed.

Shaking his head, he sighed and rose, gesturing to the guards.

"It won't do anything for you, Nelson," he replied, mentally gritting his teeth at the victorious sneer his sentence prompted. "But you knew that, and you don't actually want anything, so go back to your eight feet of space and think about the fact that Phryne Fisher will find your clients. She found you, after all, and took you down so very efficiently. I was simply hoping to expedite the process."

This was a gamble, but one that unexpectedly paid off. Nelson's entire body went stiff with rage and remembered humiliation. Had Sheridan been the one to catch him, Nelson would still have hated him, but it would have been a hatred mixed with (extremely grudging) respect. Being found and stopped by a _woman_ . . . his ego would never recover from that (which was one of the many reasons Wesley found himself anticipating the trial: watching Nelson's lawyer go head-to-head with Phryne Fisher. God, that was going to be beautiful.).

Being reminded of the manner of his defeat enraged Nelson past his natural caution and he slammed both hands on the table, making the small room echo with an unpleasant _ddoonnngg._ Sheridan managed to hold back his flinch – and then promptly had to redouble his efforts to keep his triumph under wraps when the other man snarled, "That silver-tail slut won't stand a chance against her! She owns New Zealand an —"

He heard himself and stopped talking so fast Sheridan almost got whiplash. The horror on Nelson's face was comical and the inspector nearly choked himself in an effort to contain his own smug laughter. He hadn't gotten a name . . . but he had a starting point. Two of them, actually, and he took a moment to marvel at the fact that their culprit was a woman. Then he thought about Phryne Fisher.

Well, hell. This had just gotten twice as difficult. But Sheridan enjoyed a good challenge and these people desperately needed to be brought to justice. For a split second, he wished that they'd taken advantage of their good fortune at not being targeted after the abduction ring had been taken out of play, but his memory of the recovered victims washed that thought away under a tide of angry determination.

"Take him back," he said tiredly as he started for the exit. "And run that question past his accomplices," he added, pausing to look over his shoulder. "On the off-chance you get any useful information, call it over to City South in Melbourne."

Three startled looks met this statement, but a deferential "Of course, Inspector" was the only response he got. Sheridan gave the guards a nod before stepping out into the main hall and heading for the front door, making a mental note to alert City South that they were on their way.

So. His suspect was a woman who was heavily involved in the crime networks of New Zealand.

Well, that tore it: he'd never complain about being bored again.

/*/*/*/*/

Once he'd delivered his news to Miss Fisher, Will found himself absolutely enthralled as he observed her. She was clearly mulling over the few facts they had about these abductions and seeing if she could glean any other information from them. Her gaze distant, her chin absently resting on her hand, she resembled nothing so much as a female version of Rodin's _The Thinker._

Will was even more envious of the inspector now, though that thought was tempered with his knowledge of her occasionally-acid tongue and impatience with the procedure and required legalities of police work. Still, she was enchanting and he was beginning to of wonder if she had a sister when her abrupt exclamation of "Of course!" nearly startled him off his chair. His heart beating like he'd just finished the _Tour de France_, Will looked over at her, his eyes wide with shock and a little apprehension.

"Miss Fisher?" he asked cautiously, leaning over the desk in an effort to catch her gaze. "Is . . . something wrong?"

"Hmm?" she inquired, giving him a puzzled look that swiftly changed to one of understanding. "No," she answered, a rather predatory smile coming to her lips. "Just the opposite, in fact."

Will was almost afraid to ask, but he'd seen the results of her ideas too many times, so his only reply was an offer of assistance, which she accepted with alacrity.

"If you will, Sergeant Hawkins —"

(the sudden formality made him both nervous and suspicious)

"— I'd like you to arrange an interview with Miss Maria Russo."

This was said expectantly, as though he would recognize the name, and Will felt another stab of trepidation, because he didn't. It seemed that his poker face needed some work, since Miss Fisher gave him a commiserating smile and expounded on her request.

"Miss Russo, Will, is the maid who worked for – six, I believe the books said – of the families who had relatives abducted."

Ah. Will hadn't been part of the bookkeeping side of things; he (along with the rest of the Melbourne contingent) had been strictly on the 'find and arrest' assignment. So how did Miss Fisher know about the woman?

Oh. Right. She'd found the accountant's office and provided pictures along with a detailed file. He'd forgotten. But why . . . ?

"What will that serve?" he said curiously, unable to divine even a hint of her reasoning.

This time her smile was a trifle condescending, but his resentment of that faded with her next sentence.

"Because, Sergeant, she is obviously extremely intelligent, or she would have been found out much earlier. More tellingly, Nelson wouldn't have worked with her otherwise."

"Right," he agreed carefully, still not grasping her point.

Impatience flashed across her face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared, and she continued in the same even tone of voice.

"Most importantly, Maria Russo is a well-trained maid – which means she was all but invisible to the upper class. They tend not to see servants as a matter of course, but any _good _domestic learns to blend in to their surroundings. You could stand in my parlour for an hour and never see my butler if he doesn't wish it."

"I see," Will breathed in appreciation, for he was beginning to follow her train of thought. "So you think —"

"— that she followed Nelson at least once to see who he reported to, if for no other reason than acquire either blackmail material or protection. I think it highly likely that she's seen the head of the buyer's ring, though it's doubtful we'll get a name."

He stared at her in silence for several seconds, speechless with awe and no small amount of envy. That would not have occurred to him in a hundred years – but it would to Inspector Robinson. That was the main reason he was making no attempts to move to a different station or precinct, where promotion would be faster. He didn't want to become a DI because someone needed the numbers; that got people killed. No, he wanted to earn his stripes, and Inspector Robinson was the best.

His partner in every respect was definitely a match for him, and as such, was someone else that Will could learn from. He wasn't going to waste the opportunity (or miss the sheer education (and enjoyment)) of watching this interrogation.

"I'll go make the call, Miss Fisher," he said respectfully, fighting down the urge to bow because she was fabulously, frighteningly glorious, and she terrified him as much as she drew him.

(which, now that he had reason to consider it, explained a great deal about Deputy Commissioner Sanderson's dislike for her; he was a very traditional type of man, the D.C.)

One thing was definite, though: he would do whatever it took to find Inspector Robinson. And he would throw himself off a cliff before he disappointed her.

And if he was still sane at the end of this, he was buying Hugh Collins an entire bloody bar of drinks. If this was what he put up with on a daily basis, the man was a damned saint.

/*/*/*/*/

Wesley Sheridan walked through the main door of the City South station and promptly ran face-first into a rousing debate (ah, no. No, this was an argument.) about the safety of one Sergeant Hawkins and his subsequent elimination – along with Hugh Collins – from the ranks of those who could safely escort Miss Fisher to an interview with a woman whose name rang a bell, though he couldn't immediately recall why. The lady had apparently won that round because he entered on the tail-end of it, just in time for the focus to change to 'why do think that you, a woman and NOT a police officer, are the one who'll be conducting this interview?' from a man who – on first impression – appeared to be too stupid to breathe, given his attitude toward the woman in question.

And Wesley was tired and stiff from the drive, but he'd already ascertained that there wasn't anyone of sufficient rank – rank, hell. There wasn't anyone currently available that Miss Fisher respected enough to – not bow down to, but trust in their protection and their ability to let her, in essence, run the interrogation. It went against every instinct Wesley had developed in seventeen years as a police officer, and had it been anyone else he would have held his tongue, but he'd gotten to know Phryne Fisher personally and the work she'd done in taking down Nelson's slave ring was beyond impressive. In addition, he knew, trusted, and respected Jack Robinson.

So, Wesley heaved a giant sigh (mentally, of course; he also had a great deal of respect for Miss Fisher), laid his head on the chopping block, and stepped forward, making his presence known by firmly saying, "I'll be more than happy to escort Miss Fisher wherever she needs to go." 

Every head in the room snapped in his direction, which he had to admit was amusing, but he kept his expression bland, offering only an arched eyebrow at the young man who'd been arguing with Miss Fisher (and good God, when had the Academy started graduating infants? He remembered a mandatory requirement of being old enough to shave.) and silently daring him to object. The boy badly wanted to, but he wasn't fool enough to follow through, and Miss Fisher only gave him an accepting nod along with a 'pleased to see you' smile.

A quiet "Inspector!" had him glancing to his left, quickly finding Sergeant Hawkins and giving him a respectful nod.

"Sergeant," he replied, holding out his hand. It was taken in a firm, confident grip and he relaxed a little, offering the other man a genuine smile. "It's good to see you, though I do wish the circumstances were better."

"Same here, Sir," Hawkins replied, stepping back and gesturing to an office with 'J Robinson' on the door. He might have felt trepidation about using another man's office – and knew full well he wouldn't be dancing in the street if another inspector were to use his – but he appreciated both the necessity and the urgency, so he made no objection, merely offered Miss Fisher his arm to escort her and gestured his men to fall in behind him. It was crowded with the seven – no, eight (Collins had joined the group) of them, but they were all experienced enough to ignore the uncomfortable closeness and get down to business.

"All right, gentlemen. Miss Fisher," he started, going straight to the wall where Jack had hung a large – all right, huge – blank piece of butcher's paper, presumably so he could lay out his version of a case. Wesley was impressed, and also feeling a bit like a fool; he'd never thought to do that, and he couldn't even begin to count the numerous cases where instant access to the layout and/or timeline would have been useful. He actually pulled out his notebook and jotted down a reminder for himself; he would put a similar setup in his own office once he got back.

Without being prompted, Hawkins handed him an extremely thin file. Wesley flipped it open and wasn't able to contain his wince. The younger man hadn't been exaggerating when he'd said that they had very little information. Miss Fisher's desire to interview someone who had to be connected to the slave ring suddenly made perfect sense and he looked at her, noting with mild amusement that she was watching him with the same assessing gaze he'd given Jack Robinson four months earlier when he'd first walked into Wesley's territory.

"What are you hoping to get from the woman you want to speak with, Miss Fisher?" he asked courteously, taking no offense at her protective instincts. He'd seen what Jack was capable of when it came to this woman and he had no doubt whatsoever that she was just as defensive of him. He actually felt a bit sorry for these bastards masquerading as human beings, but only a bit. Not only was Miss Fisher highly intelligent, she was also extremely creative. This lot had had their chance and failed to take it; they deserved everything that was coming.

"Hopefully, a description of the man we're looking for," was the surprising answer. Wesley blinked at her in lieu of a reply, as he was literally speechless. It only lasted a few seconds before he recovered and promptly asked for clarification. She gave him the same reasoning she'd given Hawkins (he would find this out in a few hours) and he found himself impressed again at the quality of people that Jack surrounded himself with.

"Well, then," he said easily, indicating the door. "Shall we go?"

A blink was the only visible sign of her surprise, but she merely nodded in agreement and opened the door, stepping into the hall and calling her companion to her side. Wesley followed but paused at the entrance, giving the group a serious look.

"Go over the timeline and any other evidence we have available," he instructed the room at large. "Fresh eyes may see something we missed and if not, we still need to get what we do have up for everyone to see."

A room full of nods was his answer and he bit back a grin at the unintentionally humourous sight.

"I'll be back as soon as we've concluded this interview and God willing, we'll have more information. So. Wish us luck, gentlemen, and take some for yourselves, and let's find our missing men."

This time his response was an energetic "Yes, Sir!" and he let the smile escape as he turned away, noting Miss Fisher's approving look as he joined the two of them. A quick introduction later ("Inspector Sheridan, my companion Dorothy Williams") and they were off, the women in Miss Fisher's car and him following in his own vehicle, with one thought dominating his mind.

This would probably be the most entertaining thing he'd see all year.

/*/*/

Because God had a sense of humour, Wesley shouldn't have been surprised that said interview was anti-climactic. Boring, even.

He did enjoy the short reunion between himself and Miss Fisher, while they were waiting for Miss Williams to return from the toilet. She was genuinely pleased to see him and actually managed to surprise him by giving him a warm hug. He then followed them to the gaol and found himself torn between admiration of her skill (Jack's assertion that she'd served in an ambulatory unit during the war was suddenly much less farfetched) and appalled disbelief at the way she forced other drivers to compensate for her war-honed talents.

(as was typical with Phryne Fisher, admiration won)

He gave Miss Williams a commiserating look as she emerged from the (quite frankly gorgeous) Hispano-Suiza and received a wan smile in response, though it was immediately wiped away by a supportive stance as she went to her mistress' side. Impressed yet again, Wesley stepped to her other side and offered his arm, and together, they entered the uninviting building that was the basic blueprint of every gaol on the planet.

The woman they were meeting was quiet, calm, and effacing to the point of absurdity. Her hazel eyes held a startling intelligence, though, and she nodded regally to the two of them (Miss Williams had been made to wait in the hall) as Miss Fisher seated herself across the table and Wesley took up a protective stance just behind and to her left.

"Miss Russo," Miss Fisher began, folding her hands on the table and meeting the other woman's eyes in utter seriousness. "My name is Phryne Fisher and I've asked for this meeting because I believe you used your innate intelligence and the training your position gave you to gather information about the people Nelson was dealing with."

A pair of arched eyebrows was the woman's only visible sign of surprise, but after a moment she nodded and straightened in her chair.

"And why would that be of any concern to you?" she asked in a voice that was similar to Miss Fisher's – neither too low nor too high, and well-enunciated – as she placed her shackled hands flat against the table. Her gaze never moved from the cool green eyes boring into her with a steadfast resolve.

"Because I strongly suspect that Nelson's buyers are behind a recent string of kidnappings and since they were foolish enough to come out of hiding, I fully intend to oblige them by showing them the delights of our city gaol," Miss Fisher replied firmly, leaning forward.

"And how will telling you help me?" Russo asked evenly, as though the answer was of no import to her. It was an aggravating echo of Wesley's recent conversation with Wayne Nelson and he involuntarily clenched his fists, absently thankful that they were behind his back.

Miss Fisher paused for a few seconds, visibly considering what to say, before she also straightened and removed her hands from the table to put them in her lap – but not before giving Wesley a warning gesture that he quickly took to mean 'stand there and look pretty, and for the love of God, DON'T REACT.'

"To be perfectly honest, Miss Russo," she began, her voice ringing with sincerity. "I don't know that telling me what I want to know will do anything for you, but I promise you this: I will do any- and everything in my power to help you, be it a reduced sentence or a different location."

Russo looked interested, but wasn't fool enough to immediately jump at the dangling lure. Instead, she chose to negotiate.

"That's not much incentive," she observed dryly, relaxing a little in her chair.

Wesley watched in utter fascination as Miss Fisher matched her pose and attitude, giving her a speculative look before nodding to herself and taking a deep breath.

"I won't lie to you, Miss Russo," she said firmly, her gaze intensifying. "I may not be able to do anything to help you; I wish otherwise, but that is the way of the world – but regardless of the end result, I promise you in front of these witnesses" (Wesley and the two guards stiffened in surprise) "that I will come to wherever you are and tell you in person."

Silence.

No one wanted to break it so it stretched out, quickly bypassing 'uncomfortable' and moving straight into 'excruciating.' Wesley had to exert conscious effort to keep from coughing simply to introduce some sound into the deafening echo.

A slightly bitter chuckle shattered that echo so abruptly that one of the guards actually jumped. Wesley gave him a quelling look that made him flush, but neither woman appeared to notice. Instead, Miss Fisher cocked her head in inquiry and put her hands back on the table.

But she still said nothing.

Russo shook her head and smiled ruefully before tilting her chin in a manner reminiscent of a princess bestowing a favour on a commoner.

"You're lucky your reputation precedes you, Miss Fisher," she said quietly. "I did indeed follow Nelson twice to see who his contact was. I would estimate her age to be late-thirties or perhaps very early forties. She's not unattractive, but neither is she a great beauty, and she has brown hair. I'm not sure of her eye colour, as I never got that close, though I suspect blue or green, and based on the deference she was given – and the respect – her people seem to be utterly loyal to her. She and Nelson met at Stoddard Street the two times I saw them, so I don't know where she's from, nor do I have any information along those lines. I know it's not all that much," she added apologetically, "but hopefully it's a starting point."

Wesley counted himself lucky that he'd already known their suspect was a woman, especially given the slack-jawed astonishment scrawled all over the guards' faces. Miss Fisher seemed startled but not shocked as she thanked the woman for her time and information, and he mentally cursed himself for not mentioning his interview with Nelson before they'd come here, even as he found himself impressed anew at – well, at her.

Jack really was a lucky man.

/*/*/*/*/

The lucky man in question was pulled out of the light doze he had miraculously fallen into at the sound of his door being pushed open. Blinking against the sudden flare of light, he squinted in an effort to more clearly see the figure entering his cell. As that figure resolved into a petite woman with moderately attractive features, darkish brown hair, and eyes the colour of dead leaves, he blinked again to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

No. No, he wasn't. It seemed that his captor – and someone high up in the buyer's ring, if not the actual head (which would just be his luck) – was a woman.

Damn. That was going to make things more difficult, if for no other reason than the fact that police officers generally didn't think of or consider women when talking about an operation such as this. It wasn't right, but the cold truth was that women were seldom considered capable of condoning a heinous act like the buying and selling of human beings, much less committing it.

Well, this definitely put a new spin on things. Jack found that he could honestly say, given the choice, he really wouldn't mind quiet, staid, and boring for a bit. But. That wasn't the situation he'd been given, so he took a few seconds to mentally fortify himself, straightened on the scrap of cloth masquerading as a mattress, and defiantly met the woman's chilly gaze.

"Ma'am," he said haughtily before gesturing with his free hand. "I'd offer you a seat, but my flat is currently being cleaned and so space is at a premium."

The ice in her eyes didn't warm in the slightest, but a flash of genuine humour lit her expression before it settled back to the sneering condescension she'd been wearing when she came in the door.

"Well done, Inspector," she said quietly, giving him a tight smile. "It will not help you, but it's good that you still have spirit."

Jack was too busy being startled at recognizing her accent to really register what she'd said at first, but when it sank in, he blinked in surprise before remembering himself and arching an eyebrow at her.

"I didn't think your kind liked 'spirit,'" he shot back, starting to cross his arms and only remembering the shackle at the last minute, flexing his fingers in frustration.

Her smile changed to 'coldly amused' and she took malicious satisfaction in telling him, "Oh, you aren't wrong, Inspector. I don't like spirit in my men; it's very tiresome and not worth any of the trouble. But my buyers are irritatingly insistent on getting a quality product, and since they pay very well for that quality, I have no choice but to keep you unharmed and in fairly good shape.

"You should enjoy it," she continued while Jack was trying his damnedest to beat down a sudden surge of hope. "Because there was quite the bidding war on you and your men, and your new owners are very eager to meet you."

This horrifying statement was accompanied by a smile so saccharine, it turned Jack's stomach, but sheer willpower kept his expression blank. He refused to give this bitch even the slightest hint of a reaction. Reluctant approval crossed her face at his display of control, but it was gone as quickly as it came and vicious glee filled her voice as she said, "Your wait is only for another two days, Inspector, and then – well, then no one at all will care about you, so you should enjoy your last hours of freedom."

She turned on her heel and walked out, leaving a stunned Jack gaping after her.

If what the woman had said was true – and he had no reason to think otherwise – then waiting for Phryne was no longer an option.

On the other hand, escaping meant that he wouldn't end up being the 'damsel in distress,' which (he was ashamed to say) did wonderful things for his ego.

Hang on.

Something about her last sentence was bothering him. He tried for a minute to force it to the surface, but quickly gave up, knowing that whatever detail was eluding him would come without prompting. Since it could well be several hours until it deigned to grace him with its presence, he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, absently wishing for something – anything – to take the edge off this damned headache. Mr Butler's homemade remedy sounded downright heavenly (and that settled it; when he got out of this, he and Phryne were going to have an actual conversation about 'home' and their expectations thereof. She was right that the state of limbo he was keeping them in wasn't fair to her; his point about full-time resident and necessary space was equally as valid, and this needed to be worked out.).

Sighing, Jack carefully tried to flex his shoulders, desperately seeking relief from the knotted muscles in his back. If he were at Phryne's, she'd be giving him a shoulder rub right now, kneading the tension out with her strong, clever hands (or she'd have coaxed him into the tub under the pretense of soaking the ache out, which doubtless would have worked, had 'soaking out the ache' been what actually happened), telling him some outrageous story while she turned him into putty.

Phryne!

_That_ was what was bothering him! The woman had said that no one would care about him, which likely meant she didn't know about Phryne or their relationship. And that only made sense, really; her people had to have been watching him for a few days and since he'd only left the station to (reluctantly) go to his flat, they would have no reason to know about her, especially since he'd kept her away from the investigation (she'd fought it, but a combination of logic and her own cases had eventually prevailed). The various pains all over his body were washed away by sheer, utter relief. She didn't know about Phryne; that meant his lover was safe.

Not even a minute later, he remembered that Phryne would still be looking for him, which made the pain come crashing back. Phryne was intelligent, experienced, and well-trained for someone who wasn't a police officer, but like everyone else, she'd be looking for a man. Jack and his men would be out of Australia before anyone had so much as an inkling that there was a missing piece to the puzzle, never mind what that piece was.

Wait, though. This _was_ Phryne, and she had never deluded herself about what the human race was capable of. Look at that model/jewel thief/murderess from the House d'Fleury: Phryne hadn't even blinked at the revelation, while Jack had been mentally gaping when she'd admitted to the murder of Frances Wilder and that poor seamstress.

So there was a chance that she'd find the right direction before his two days expired, but it was a small chance and that understanding had Jack nodding to himself. He needed to start making actual plans for escape. These people weren't stupid, not by a long shot, and it was extremely unlikely that they would be so careless as to let themselves be seen or caught doing something illegal, which meant that a new avenue of investigation wasn't going to suddenly make itself known.

The end result was that Jack would need to effect his own rescue and he found himself oddly disappointed – just once it would be nice to have someone else be the one to get shot at. He felt both guilty and ridiculous a second later and silently resolved to never, even on pain of death, mention this particular thought to Phryne. Ever. His ego could not take the resulting laughter.

Realizing how little sense that last thought made, Jack sighed again and shifted until he was supine on the floor, absently wincing at the additional pressure against the bruises on his back. He badly needed to sleep, given that he was becoming incoherent, and then he needed to see what kind of escape plan he could start putting together. Against every expectation, he drifted off almost immediately, and a smile came to his lips at the feel of a phantom kiss. Phryne would always come to him, even in his dreams, and that's why these buyers would lose.

Truth be told, he almost felt sorry for them.

But they'd dug their own graves by taking him, Mason, and Page, and as such, had no one else to blame when Phryne burned their world to ashes while his other officers handed her oil-soaked rags and lit matches.

That was his woman.

/*/*/*/*/


	3. The Whole Nine Yards

After the interview with Maria Russo – which had been more informative than she'd expected and more disappointing than she'd hoped – Phryne and Dot headed home for a change of clothes and a bit of a rest (Dot had firmly insisted on the latter; after all, she could hardly help Inspector Robinson if she keeled over with exhaustion). Since Phryne was keenly feeling the effects of the past two days, she made no real objection and after a long, hot soak and a kip of about four hours, was curled up on the chaise in her parlour, sipping one of Mr Butler's delightful concoctions and recalling some of the memories she and Jack had made in this room (and not just in the last four months, though Phryne would always have a deep fondness for the corner chair, and every time Jack looked at the wall by the door, he would give a smug smile).

Sighing, she put her half-empty glass on the table to her left and drew her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and resting her chin against the soft material of her dressing gown. In spite of the happy memories, she was still terrified for Jack and would be until he came home where he belonged.

But did he feel that way?

This was a question that had only recently occurred to her and it . . . well, to be truthful, it scared her. Because if Jack – who was one of the most observant people she'd ever met – didn't know by now that her home was his, then what hope was there for them? If, after all this time, he still thought of himself as a guest, then what could she say or do to change that?

Before she had a chance to delve too deeply into that frightening thought, she heard the unmistakable sounds of Mr Butler ushering someone into the house. Her curiosity piqued, Phryne looked up – and her jaw actually dropped for a moment as Lin Chung strode into her parlour.

She hadn't seen Lin in – good Lord, almost seven months. He'd been in the city on business and had come to see her in another attempt at convincing her to be his mistress. She had firmly (albeit a touch reluctantly) turned him away, citing her refusal to be with any man who would knowingly, and with deliberate forethought, commit adultery (she was all for taking your pleasure where you find it, but she despised adulterers with a passion that would have surprised most people, and engaged was one thing but married was quite another). Lin had taken his set-down gracefully, though not gladly, and she'd neither seen nor heard from him since.

Camellia she'd run into at the House d'Fleury a little over two months ago and mentioned Jane's young – rescuer? escort? – friend? Yes, that was it – Jane's friend Simon, who had done well by her while she was scouting for information on Eddington Street. She'd received a letter from the other woman just last week, telling her that she and Lin had met with Simon a few times, it was going reasonably well, and all three were cautiously hopeful about soon being allowed to take him home officially and permanently.

"You look good, Silver Lady." Lin's quiet, cultured tones brought her attention back to the present and she smiled as she looked up. Despite her refusal to be his lover, she was still very fond of him.

"Thank you," she replied sincerely as she offered her hand. With a soft smile, he bowed over it and brushed his lips across the knuckles – and Phryne had to mentally chuckle as she realized it did nothing for her. It seemed that Jack had spoiled her for other men. "So do you."

His eyes lit with pleasure at the compliment and she bit back a frown; apparently, he didn't realize (or want to believe, more likely) that she had been utterly serious when she'd turned him away the last time. Before she could think of a delicate way to phrase the question, he cleared his throat and settled himself into the chair opposite her, his expression now utterly serious.

Concerned, Phryne said, "Is there something wrong?" as she sat up and assumed a more dignified pose.

He studied her intently for a few seconds before slowly nodding.

"Possibly," he replied. "One of my men – one of the sailors, to be more precise – noted an oddity late last night."

For no reason at all, Phryne's heart began to beat faster.

"He told me that one of the ships currently at port is one he's seen before, but it always leaves at the first safe waters within 48 hours of docking."

He paused here and gave her an unreadable look; as she couldn't even begin to decipher it, Phryne countered with a raised eyebrow and a mildly curious expression (though her breathing increased to match her heart).

"This time, he tells me, the ship has been docked here for over a week."

"Have you been here that long?" she asked curiously, momentarily diverted.

"No," he replied, shaking his head. "We got in about two days ago. But my man is friendly with some of the local lads and harbour boys are worse gossips than old ladies at a _salon._"

Phryne couldn't stop the smile that pulled at her lips; her own experience with sailors and shipmen confirmed the truth of his statement. But —

"Why are you telling me?" she inquired, absently tugging a pillow into her lap and even more absently shredding its fringe.

"Because my man got curious last night and followed a few of the men off the ship in question to an office building that doesn't seem to be in current use. They were talking about some jacks they were currently holding, which bothered him enough that he came to me after confirming that they're apparently staying there. I thought of you because – well, 'jack' is another term for police officer, if I recall correctly."

Phryne nodded slowly, even as she was mentally jumping up and down with excitement. This was it. This was how she would find Jack.

Lin nodded in return, his gaze going distant as he softly said, "And I remembered that you were well-acquainted with a detective inspector, so I assumed that he would more readily believe the information from you rather than myself."

This wasn't actually true, but Phryne knew she'd never convince Lin of that. He'd been more right than she'd known all those months ago, when he'd been wary about Jack being a possible rival for her affections.

"Especially since he lives here now, doesn't he?" Lin murmured.

That took a minute to register, but when it did, Phryne looked up in shock, her eyes wide with disbelief. It seemed that her expression was all the answer he required, because he nodded again, slowly, and resignation filled his face before he looked away.

"Lin . . . "

"Don't, please," he interrupted her. "You told me that you couldn't commit yourself to any man and I accepted that, though I was disappointed. And even when I came back some months ago to ask again, but this time without the condition of 'permanent,' you still turned me away. I see now that you never loved me."

His voice was raw with pain and his eyes were dark with hurt, but Phryne couldn't let that pass unchallenged.

"We never talked about love, Lin," she began, holding his gaze with her own. "I cared for – I still care – deeply for you."

She continued before the hope filling his gaze could take hold.

"But I don't love you, not like that. You and I were never meant for permanency, Lin, and I'm sorry if you thought otherwise."

His eyes fell shut at her admittedly blunt statement and Phryne felt a stab of remorse. She didn't want to hurt him – but he had to let her go, because she refused to keep doing this.

"I do count you as a very dear, cherished friend," she went on, knowing it wouldn't be enough (at least, not right now) but nonetheless hoping it would soothe him, even a little. "And for what it might be worth, Jack came as a total surprise to me. I can honestly tell you that I never saw him coming."

This was the unvarnished truth, albeit somewhat incomplete, and Lin heard it in her voice. He looked back at her, the hurt muted by fatalistic understanding.

"It's doubtful he saw you coming, either," he told her, his voice holding pained amusement but no bite. It was better than Phryne had hoped for and she gave him a small smile, thankful that he was able to be mature about the situation. She did hate to ask her next questions, but she needed as much detail as he could give her and Jack's life was worth any price.

"Did your man happen to give you any other information?" she asked earnestly, leaning forward. He held her eyes for a minute more before giving a small sigh and tucking away his last remnants of hope. With another small sigh, he reached into his inner coat pocket to fish out a small brown book, and after a quick perusal to make sure he had everything, Lin tore out several pages in the middle. His hands were steady when he gave them to her and after she laid them on the cushion beside her, Phryne lightly grasped his wrist and placed her jaw in the curve of his fingers, giving a contented _hum_ as his thumb tenderly caressed her cheek. Before it could descend into dangerous territory, she pulled away and released him with a gentle smile.

"Friends?" she entreated, hoping he would – _could_ – say 'yes.' She truly liked the man and enjoyed his company, and had from the beginning. Lin wasn't one of her pre-Jack playthings – all body, few brains – and she was loathe to lose that, though she would understand if she was asking more than he was willing to give.

He looked down for a moment, studying his hands, before meeting her eyes again.

"Always," he vowed, his voice ringing with sincerity.

"Thank you," she replied with equal honesty, rising to her feet. He stood with her and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow as they started for the parlour door, halting in the foyer so he could don his hat and coat.

"I know you didn't realize when you came here, but you may have just helped save the lives of three men," she said, watching as his eyebrows rose in surprise. "And that is a gift I can never repay."

"I would never ask you to," he replied gravely, taking her hand again and giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Because you're a good man," she told him. "I wish you nothing but the best, Lin, for you deserve it. Give Camellia my love and tell Simon that Jane still thinks of him."

Lin recognized this for the dismissal it was and smiled. He leaned forward and brushed a light, tender kiss across her lips before walking out the front door into the evening dusk.

Phryne stood in the doorway for several minutes, staring at nothing and turning the conversation over in her mind. She was so distracted, in fact, that Mr Butler's quiet, "Is everything all right, Miss?" startled a gasp out of her as she spun to face him. Then his question registered and, given that her butler had thus far proven to be an excellent listener and a superb dispenser of advice, Phryne gestured him to accompany her back to the parlour.

"No, Mr Butler," she said, accepting the glass of brandy he handed her as she sank back down on the chaise. "Right now, nothing is all right."

He studied her with his customary calm expression, waiting patiently for more information. With a slight smile, Phryne obliged.

"You're a man," she started abruptly, feeling an obscure need to state the obvious. "Why would – what might – oh!" she exclaimed in frustration, finishing the brandy in one long swallow. Setting the glass aside, she brought her hands together and tried again. "What could compel a man like Jack to keep his own flat – after agreeing to a full-on, no holds barred relationship?"

Phryne thought she saw a flicker of surprise in the man's eyes, but it was gone so quickly she couldn't have sworn to it as he gave her question full consideration. After several minutes of silence, he finally looked directly at her and said, "We are very different men, Miss, but I believe the first place to look would be this: did you specifically _tell _him that not only was he fully welcome to move here, but you expect – and want – him to do so?"

There were another few minutes of silence while Phryne – having swallowed her indignation that anyone in an actual, committed partnership would _not_ expect co-habitation, especially someone who'd been married before (although . . . he had been married to Rosie, who wasn't the warmest of people) – gave that serious thought. She finally had to admit to confusion, however, and gave her butler a small shrug and an honest, "As it happens, Mr Butler, no. I didn't think it would be necessary."

He nodded sagely before gesturing to the chair beside him, wordlessly asking for permission to sit. She gave him an absent nod as she caught the brandy decanter and poured herself another glass; an inquiring wave in Mr Butler's direction netted a negative response, so she recapped the container and set it down. After taking a sip, she fixed him with a firm gaze and tried very hard to request an explanation. Unfortunately, it came out as a demand. Luckily, her manservant understood her very well and only offered an understanding smile before elaborating.

"Men are not nearly as simple as we are frequently portrayed," he started, shifting a bit to get comfortable. "But neither are we so complex as to rival our women."

There was a subtle hint of slyness in his tone, which Phryne had to grin at; the complexities of women had driven her to drink more than once, and she _was _a woman (consequently, she frequently had sympathy for the male half of the population, though admittedly not too much). Still, humour aside, she did grasp the man's point – well, some of it, at least.

"I see," she said thoughtfully, her words trailing off in a subtle invitation for him to continue; she wasn't shy about speaking her mind, but he was her servant, which changed the dynamics and therefore the rules. Had she been anyone else, this conversation likely would not be happening, so for once, she wasn't eager to push her luck.

His arched eyebrows indicated his understanding but he said nothing about it; instead, he continued smoothly into his next point.

"I know you think it's obvious that he would move in with all haste, Miss, but I don't think you quite realize – the inspector was married for a number of years, as I understand, and comes from a rather traditional, solid, middle-class family."

"Yes," Phryne agreed with some confusion; she'd long known this about Jack.

"So, even though he is well-aware – and accepting, as well – of your stance on marriage," Mr Butler continued delicately (well, as delicately as possible, given the subject), "he is still a product of both his class and his prior circumstances. Given the situation, it's highly likely that he assumed that you would not want him here full time, since that is one of the major components of a successful marriage."

A stunned Phryne absently drained half her drink as she absorbed this – because truthfully, it had never occurred to her. Then her wonderful, marvelous butler spoke again.

"In addition, I, um – well, I've observed, Miss, that he has certain – ideas – about what to expect during a specific time every month and may feel compelled to remove himself entirely from the situation."

His meaning sank in immediately and Phryne nearly burst out laughing, but heroically refrained. She was fairly certain that beneath his inscrutable exterior, Mr Butler was blushing like a lobster and probably a bit (or a lot) mortified that he'd been so bold as to bring it up at all.

Still, his point was valid, especially since she was able to tally three of Jack's stays at his flat with Day 2 of her personal hell. Given that she was always bloated, sore, and extremely irritable for those three or four days, it was perfectly understandable that her lover didn't want to be skewered with a letter opener for something as mundane as breathing (in truth, 'irritable' was too mild a word; 'bitchy' was really more accurate) . . . but did the man not realize that she had fourteen available rooms for him _here?_

As if he'd read her mind, Mr Butler provided another possible answer.

"I've also noticed that sometimes, Inspector Robinson likes to sit quietly with a drink and just . . . sit. He occasionally reads, but from what I've seen, he mostly likes to simply think."

That . . . explained a lot. Phryne had wondered at Jack's resigned irritation or quiet frustration when she'd come to find him and drag him off to go or do something with her (though when she was in an amorous mood, she could honestly say she hadn't seen any complaints).

She was opening her mouth to express her thoughts to Mr Butler when her brain caught up and she managed to segue the action into taking a drink. Though she cared not one whit about the fact that he was her butler, the set of his shoulders and his uneasy posture in the chair screamed his growing discomfort with the situation. No, she'd be much better off by talking to – no, Anne was nearly a decade married; Phy – no, having an affair with her brother-in-law's butler's eldest son; Mac – didn't like men; Aunt Prudence – hah!

Well, it seemed that she was best served talking to Jack.

_Yes,_ her mind sarcastically noted. _The earth is round, too. Are there any other painfully obvious thoughts you'd care to have?_

She hated arguing with herself.

And losing.

Still, this conversation had been highly informative and would hopefully prevent a screaming row when they talked (and if it didn't, she couldn't claim she hadn't been forewarned).

Mr Butler's soft sigh brought her attention back and with a slightly-guilty smile, she said, "Thank you so much for your time, Mr B. It's been very enlightening. I'll be heading back to the station shortly, so I won't be here for supper and we'll likely be gone overnight, but would you help Dot pack a basket for me?"

He rose in an indecent (but entertaining) rush and replied, "Of course, Miss," before beating a hasty exit. Phryne manfully swallowed a spate of giggles as she fell back against the chaise. This little interlude had taken her mind off Jack's plight, but it wouldn't be held at bay any longer and her fear came crashing back. She gave it a rude gesture before allowing it into her thoughts; her emotions couldn't be ignored, but they could – and would, by God – be controlled. If she gave in to panic, Jack was lost to her.

And there was no way in hell that was happening. Jack Robinson was hers, she was his, and anyone who wanted otherwise could just fall off a cliff.

With that determined thought, she rose to dress in preparation for returning to the station. Armed with Lin's information and the facts she'd gleaned from Maria Russo, Phryne was finally confident that they had a good chance of finding their missing men. And if doing so meant taking Melbourne apart down to its foundations, well . . .

She didn't mind getting her hands dirty.

/*/*/*/*/

Hugh Collins found himself in an unusual position: he was nominally in charge of this Inverness-heavy group of officers, despite all four of the other station's men out-ranking him. It was a good thing he didn't have much ego, Hugh reflected, because he'd either be getting a big head or feeling profoundly offended.

To be fair, the other four were sergeants and as such, had both the experience and training of their positions and the unconscious feeling of superiority that was commonplace among the 'senior constable to senior sergeant' rank set (well, if the officers at City South were a standard indicator).

The problem was that there was, quite literally, no information to be had with regards to these abductions. Add in four displaced officers and two men (well, five, but the three constables weren't in the room) who were essentially being held hostage to prevent their kidnappings, and you had a powder keg.

The inevitable explosion came as a surprise to Hugh, however, because he would never have guessed the trigger. Then again, he hadn't been present for the initial event and it wasn't something any of the others talked about, so he felt rather like a man watching a Shakespeare play he'd never seen before. In Japanese.

It started with Caffrey, one of Sheridan's men, hitting the wall in exasperation and exclaiming, "God! Is it too much to ask for someone to punch in the face? We might actually get something to go on."

This was such an incongruous statement that Hugh actually gaped at the other man, wondering what in the hell that was about. A quiet scoff from – Hawkins? – pulled his attention to the sergeant as he drawled, "Punch, hell. The innovative use of a gun would be more productive."

"And fun," Hopkins chimed in from where he was leaning against the inspector's desk. Hugh was utterly lost, as was Graham, if the bewildered look they exchanged was any indication. Kingston, however, was neither lost nor amused and he let the room know it by slamming his hand against the desk, making it rattle and causing several of them to start (or outright jump) in surprise.

"That is _not_ funny or appropriate, Hawkins," he hissed, his eyes blazing with anger. "It's obvious that you don't have the slightest idea of the risk Sheridan took —"

"Don't have the slightest idea?!" Hawkins shot back, his own eyes bright with indignation and an anger that easily matched Kingston's. "Why the hell would you think that? In case it's slipped your mind, I was there! I know exactly what happened, and why, and based on what I've seen and heard, the only person who has a problem with it is _you._"

Dead silence filled the room, broken only by Hawkins' harsh breathing. Everyone else was frozen, staring at the two men in either confusion or fascination.

After about three or four minutes, Kingston finally broke the stalemate by growling, "Well, maybe that's because I'm smart enough to know what would have happened to us if his little stunt hadn't worked."

Hawkins stared incredulously at him, as did Caffrey, while the rest of them looked on in bemused silence. Hugh (and Graham, it seemed) was about to die of curiosity, but paradoxically, he did not want to ask.

"What would have happened?" Hawkins finally repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. "He'd have killed the bastard, which I refuse to acknowledge as a bad thing, and then been dismissed and possibly arrested. Sheridan couldn't risk sending us anywhere because it might have caught his attention – and in his mindset, that would been . . . bad. Stupid. Ill-advised." He let out a bitter chuckle and added, "Pick one. Or all of them," before pinning Kingston with a contemptuous look and saying, "Was Sheridan's solution ideal? No. I think we can all agree to that."

"But it was necessary, Greg," Caffrey abruptly interjected, startling everybody.

"No," Kingston said firmly, shaking his head. "Under no circumstances could that be considered 'necessary.'"

For a minute, it looked like his fellow sergeant was going to argue with him, but he suddenly shook his head and blew out a deep sigh.

"Then you need to ask for a transfer, Greg," he said quietly, moving to Hopkins' side. "Because personally, I'm sick of putting up with your attitude and disrespect toward the inspector. In case you've forgotten, he doesn't have to justify himself to you – but he did, and you agreed with him at the time."

"You did," Hopkins confirmed, making Caffrey twitch a little in what looked like surprise. "And I'm not responsible for you backpedaling after it was all said and done. You're a good mate, Greg, and a good officer, but if you can't get past this, then you need to go, because I'm with Caffrey: I'm sick of the attitude."

The expression on Greg Kingston's face was heartbreaking, Hugh thought with sympathy. He looked stunned, betrayed, furious, and disbelieving (truly, he looked like he'd been sucker-punched).

"I – you —" he stuttered, only to grind to an immediate halt, resembling nothing so much as a kicked puppy. He rallied quickly, though, and his expression hardened as he pulled himself together.

"Shall I leave, then?" he asked coldly, as though the answer didn't matter to him. Next to Hugh, Hawkins rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my God," he muttered quietly before raising his voice. "Don't be a bloody diva, Kingston. I don't know what your problem is and quite frankly, I don't care," he continued, his eyes dark and serious. "But Sheridan wouldn't have brought you if you were incompetent, so stuff your ego back in the box, lock it, and get on with helping us figure out how our people were targeted."

Kingston's eyes flashed with resentment, but he wisely said nothing; Hawkins was a fairly even-tempered man, but the week's events had him on edge and if the other man had mouthed off, Hawkins would likely have knocked him into the middle of next month. And left him there.

"Actually, that's a good point," Hugh said as he suddenly made the connection. "How _did_ these people find us?"

This earned him surprised looks from everyone in the room, but he wasn't the same boy who'd been afraid to give his own name when asked, and even though he found the room full of stares disconcerting, it didn't render him incapable of functioning.

"Well, think about it," he pointed out. "Our reports aren't public record, so the general population can't access them, and none of the prisoners are allowed personal visitors due to the nature of the crime."

This merited several thoughtful nods.

"So how did they find us?" he repeated, pulling out a pen as he went to the blank paper on the wall.

For a long moment, there was silence, and then Graham said, "A leak or a plant seems the most obvious. Have you had any new arrivals or transfers?"

That question made Hugh's blood run cold and he locked eyes with Hawkins, both of them sharing an identical thought: Hollingsworth.

A few seconds later, Hawkins shook his head. "No," he said slowly. "It can't be Hollingsworth."

"Why?"

That came from several people and the young sergeant looked up, his eyebrows beetling with confusion. It was just for a minute, though, and then understanding relaxed them.

"Well, one, he's only been here a fortnight," he began, leaning back against the wall. "Whoever these bastards are, they had to be watching our men for at least a week, establishing patterns and habits of behaviour, and you all remember what being a new constable is like – and that's not taking into account moving to a new station. There's no way he had the _time_."

This earned him several more thoughtful nods, and Hugh resolved to start spending more time with Hawkins. Inspector Robinson was his DI and had his loyalty, but it was too easy to forget that a lot of the other officers in City South had been trained by him and they were all highly skilled and experienced (and if he'd needed any proof to the contrary, well, Senior Sergeant Grossmith was a shining example: the man hadn't been one of the inspector's trainees, and even when you set aside the fact that he was dirty, he had still been incompetent).

"Two," Hawkins continued, bringing his attention back, "the boy cannot dissemble to save his life. And it's not a matter of being accomplished in the area, because I know what that looks like. He's simply too new and too green to have learned that skill."

Hugh nodded at the questioning looks he received – and he didn't miss the irony of him agreeing that an officer was young and inexperienced. Six months ago, the officer in question would have been him.

"Well, bollocks," Caffrey said, startling a few laughs out of his colleagues. "So, not an outsider and unlikely to be a plant . . . what's left?"

And Hugh would tell Dot later that God had to have taken an interest in things, because on the heels of that question, Constable Teegin knocked on the door and entered with a tray of sandwiches and a pot of coffee. He left the door open while he made his delivery and they heard, drifting down the hall, a remarkably clear, "—en't seen any article yet and it's been a month," from a young male voice.

It was answered by, "Well, it takes time to verify sources and officer involvement, Claude, you know that."

"I know," the first voice said, the sound getting louder as they approached Inspector Robinson's office. "But I want to know the details of that one job a few months ago; you know, the one where Inspector Robinson took half the force and disappeared for four days, and that reporter told me it'd be front-page news."

Any response to that was drowned out by the sharply indrawn breaths of six men as what they were hearing sank in, and the _en masse _rush for the door was hilarious (well, it would be later; at the time, it was just frustrating).

Frustration turned to chagrin (and no small amount of alarm) when Hugh and Caffrey, who had been closest to the door, quite literally ran over Detective Inspector Sheridan.

They stopped so abruptly that the other four plowed into them and with muffled yells (and not-so-muffled curses), the lot of them tripped and staggered their way over the fallen inspector, doing a dance to avoid trampling said DI that would have won first place in every competition for the next century. When their momentum ran out and they had all fetched up against something solid, Hopkins leaned around Hawkins' side, gave his DI a bright smile, and said, "Inspector? How was the interview?"

Hugh could only stare in horrified disbelief, especially when Sheridan merely shrugged - _while_ _sprawled on the floor -_ and replied, "Enlightening, Sergeant."

He couldn't believe he'd ever thought that City South was insane.

/*/*/*/*/


	4. Ocean's 11 - um, 12? No! 13

And here's the climax (so to speak). Thanks to all you awesome people who are reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following. You guys are wonderful and your support means so much to me.

And that's enough sap. On with the story!

/*/*/*/*/

Greg Kingston watched with an infuriatingly familiar feeling of bitter jealousy as Inspector Sheridan passed out warm congratulations to the men who had heard and understood the conversation so precipitously dropped into their laps. His resentment was exacerbated by the fact that he wasn't one of those men. It was no consolation at all that he'd been too far away to hear everything and by the time it had clicked, everyone else was on the trail and a comedy routine straight out of a circus had ensued.

So he stood in the back of the room, where he'd been more and more often of late, seething with anger as others were praised for actions that he wasn't getting the opportunity to try. It was a far cry from the favoured Senior Sergeant he'd been five months ago, but ever since that damned slave ring, his prestige had been slowly but steadily dwindling.

To add insult to injury, the two men in question were able to provide a description of the 'reporter' they'd spoken to, and the inspector had been – well, 'bemusedly smug' was the best description Greg could think of. He'd wondered at that, but Hugh Collins' soft "Miss Fisher's interview, Sir?" had answered that.

Here came the frustration, because heaven only knew he wasn't unhappy enough. No, a major clue in this case had to be discovered by someone who wasn't even an officer, while the rest of them had been reduced to staring at the blank walls of an office and getting into a fight about the appropriateness of a detective inspector using his people as collaborators in a crime.

And there was the sharp bite of betrayal.

He'd known that Caffrey wasn't happy with him, but they'd never been all that close. Oh, they got on well enough, but they weren't really friends. Hopkins, though . . . that hurt. He and Nicholas Hopkins had risen through the ranks together, attended each other's weddings, and they and their wives sometimes dined together.

For Nick to turn on him . . .

The sound of the door closing jarred him out of his thoughts and Greg gave a quick shake of his head as he looked up, noting with surprise that the room was empty other than himself and the inspector.

Who was staring at him.

He said nothing and after a bit, Greg began to feel nervous. Sheridan's face was closed, his eyes shielded, and his arms crossed. Greg suddenly felt like he was seven years old again, being reprimanded by his father for ruining the man's favourite pair of shoes by seeing if they'd float in a full bathtub.

The comparison broke his paralysis and Greg cleared his throat before asking in a steady voice, "Is there something you need, Inspector?"

Another minute of silence ticked by before the older man sighed and looked away, running a hand through his thick hair as he absently dropped into the chair behind the desk.

"Now that you ask, Sergeant, yes," he began, his voice teetering between sarcasm and annoyance and making Greg flush, but he continued immediately, "I'd like your attention on this case, if it's not too much trouble."

Now he was being patronized, and Gregory Kingston reached his limit.

"I fail to see what difference that would make," he snapped, taking a long step away from the desk and crossing his arms in an effort to hold back his anger. "You haven't wanted my attention on cases for months! I'm not actually sure why I'm here," he added bitterly, his irritable gesture encompassing City South. "It isn't like you'll listen to anything I say, so why bring me?"

A heavy silence, weighted down with anger, broken trust, and unspoken resentment, ensued. It took no time at all for Greg to hate the sound of silence but he refused to be the one who broke it, and so he waited out the torture, his chin tilted defiantly.

In less than a minute, Sheridan had also had enough and he sighed again before looking up with an unexpectedly open expression and quietly saying, "It isn't that I haven't wanted you on cases, Greg. It's that you haven't voluntarily been that close to me for longer than a minute and it's hard to work together when your partner refuses to be in the same room as you."

Greg opened his mouth to object but was spoken over before he got that far.

"I haven't said anything because you're a grown man and I honestly thought that you'd get past what happened with Nelson. Apparently, my expectations were too high," he finished bitterly, his eyes shadowed with disappointment.

A _frisson_ of fear went through Greg but he ruthlessly quelled it. So they were having this out here. Good. It wasn't ideal but it was long past time and he was itching to unload his anger, his frustration – his betrayal – on the man he'd looked up to, respected, _trusted._

"Well, I thought you respected me – us – your _officers,"_ he amended, since he hadn't been the only one there. "So it seems we're all doomed to disappointment."

"No," Sheridan returned forcefully, his eyes narrowing. "_You're_ the only one who has a problem. And yes, you are," he added firmly when Greg started to protest that. "I've talked with the others and while none of them are happy with my decision, they understand why I made it, the necessity of it. For God's sake, man!" he exclaimed, emphatically waving. "_**I**_ didn't want to do it! But at that moment in time, there was literally nothing else that might have worked; Robinson was too far gone."

"You —" don't know that, Greg started to say, but again was cut off.

"And I refuse to justify myself to you any longer. You honestly think that I don't respect you and if that's the truth, Greg, then there is nothing I can say – or do, for that matter – to change your mind. So this is what's going to happen."

A stunned Sergeant Kingston stared at his DI in open-mouthed astonishment. This was a side of the man that he'd rarely seen, and never had it been directed at him.

"You are going to keep your feelings about me and my decisions under wraps while we solve this case and find those men and their captors. When we get back to Inverness, I'll call around and see who has an open posting for someone with your rank and experience. And you will go, with no argument and no complaint, because I will not force a man who doesn't trust or respect me to work for me, and I sure as hell am not putting up with it. Is that clear?"

It was, but Greg's attention was caught by that last 'respect.' Sheridan had given the group an overview of Miss Fisher's interview with the maid and she'd mentioned that the head buyer's people respected her.

This sparked a thought.

"Her men respect her," he abruptly stated, trying to tease the aforementioned thought into coherency.

"What?" Sheridan asked, startled, his anger draining away to be replaced by bewilderment.

"The maid – whatever her name is – said that this woman's people respected her," Greg began, still feeling his way through the idea.

"Right," the inspector said slowly. He was clearly confused, but he also knew his sergeant, and thus understood that this wasn't a random tangent.

"So, given that that respect must be profound for her to see and identify it from a distance, it stands to reason that she'll either be lodging in a hotel or on the ship. Staying in the same building they're holding our men would be the height of stupidity."

"Plausible deniability," Sheridan breathed, looking gobsmacked. "That's brilliant! And since we know she's from New Zealand —"

"We do?" Greg interrupted in surprise.

"Hmm? Oh. Yes. I got that little tidbit from Wayne Nelson just before we headed down here," Sheridan absently explained, distracted by writing down these new conclusions.

"New Zealand," Greg mused softly. Well, it made sense. Close enough for relatively easy access, far enough away to avoid suspicion.

Lord, he hated smart criminals.

"Excellent," Sheridan suddenly said, startling him. "I'll send Hawkins – or, no, it's not safe for him. Damn. I'll send one of Robinson's men with you to the Harbourmaster; we need to know if any ships have come in from N.Z., when they got here, and when or if they left. Give me a few minutes to find someone," he told an astonished Kingston before leaving the office.

Greg had just fallen into the other chair when Sheridan poked his head in the door, looked him dead in the eye, and said with utter sincerity, "That's good work, Greg, This could well be a solid lead."

Kingston had no chance to reply before the DI was gone again, but a spurt of pride swelled in his chest. Good work.

The feeling sank like a stone when he remembered that five months ago, it would have been Sheridan going with him. But now – now, it was a nameless man from another station and Greg himself would be transferred very shortly after they got home.

And Greg . . . suddenly found that he was surprisingly all right with that. He would miss some of his mates, but there were fewer of them now, and getting away from the never-ending tense atmosphere would be a lifesaver.

And he would have the chance to start over, to forge a new history with someone. He would always respect Wesley Sheridan's skills, but this case had driven home the knowledge that he'd never fully trust him again and in police work, that was deadly.

No, it was better to start over with a clean slate.

(and if a part of him was crying like that seven-year-old boy, well, tough. His fellow officers were right about one thing: it was past time he grew up.)

But first . . . first, they had to find the person who thought she could kidnap three policemen with extreme prejudice and no consequences.

It was time for Little Red Riding Hood to meet the big bad wolf.

And all his friends.

/*/*/*/*/

Phryne was in a positively cheerful mood when she arrived at City South, though she did her best to hide it; there were still those at the station who didn't approve of her or her relationship with Jack, and it made no sense to deliberately antagonize them.

Well, not at the moment. When her lover was returned to her, all bets were off. She cared not a whit if they liked her, but she was damned if she would continue to put up with their sneering disrespect . . . especially given how careful they were to keep it away from Jack.

But.

That was neither here nor there. Phryne had evidence that could help find her missing men and right now, that was the only thought in her head. Wesley Sheridan came around the corner as she was heading for Jack's office and he blinked at her wide smile but said nothing about it. Instead, he caught her hand and gave it a slight squeeze before quietly asking her to wait at the front desk. She arched an eyebrow at him but agreed despite her curiosity.

As she turned the corner, a man she vaguely recognized brushed past her (she was Phryne Fisher; of _course_ she looked back) and entered Jack's office at Wesley's invitation. Her curiosity exploded to dire proportions but luckily, Hugh Collins was waiting for her. He took one look at her face and sighed, then told her, "Sergeant Kingston may have come up with a lead, and the inspector wants Senior Constable Drury to accompany him."

Phryne blinked. Well, that was unexpected, but it was most definitely good to hear.

"What lead?" she inquired as she took off her gloves and tucked them in her reticule.

"Dunno," Hugh replied with a shrug. "But Inspector Sheridan said that we'd have a full briefing as soon as you got back."

Surprised, Phryne said, "Without Sergeant Kingston?" as she paused in the middle of removing her coat.

Hugh shrugged again, but a dark look in his eyes warned her that there was something she was missing. Something big. Before she could ask, though, Wesley walked up behind her and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Is everyone ready?" he asked the young man, subtly drawing Phryne back to Jack's office.

"Yes, Sir," Hugh said smartly, falling in beside them as he called, "We're ready!" into a currently-unused office. The hall was immediately filled with four more men and Phryne suddenly found herself the filling in a fairly good-looking, extremely competent sandwich.

And again, it did nothing for her. Well, if anyone wanted proof of her feelings for Jack, there it was: she fully appreciated the beauty and intelligence she was surrounded with but she wasn't attracted to any of it in the slightest.

If Mac knew, she'd bust a gut laughing.

Sheridan directed the lot of them into Jack's office, which was once again crowded to capacity, but no one objected; they all knew how sensitive this operation was and even though they were fairly sure there wasn't a leak or plant, it was still prudent to be cautious.

"Have you found anything else, Miss Fisher?" Sheridan asked, cutting through the chatter like a knife through butter and making her the target of a dozen eyes. She was a bit surprised at his perceptiveness but rallied quickly.

"As a matter of fact, I did," she replied, pulling the papers Lin had given her out of her clutch and handing them to the Inverness DI. He read them quickly, his face surprisingly expressive as he assimilated the information, before handing them to Graham and gesturing to the no-longer-as-blank paper on the wall by the door. As his sergeant began writing down the basic facts from the papers, Sheridan indicated that Phryne should come to his side.

Curious, she obeyed, and was a bit startled to see that every man in the room was now holding a notebook and pen. This was a vastly different situation than the ones she generally found herself in and it was unnerving; as a rule when she was working with the police, it was with Jack and Hugh only. So being included in the official briefing and planning of a mission was new, especially when she factored in the outside officers.

Still, if it helped find Jack, she'd make nice with that arrogant berk George Sanderson. And thus far, these men had treated her with respect (confused respect, to be sure, but that was to be expected).

"Will you give us the highlights while Graham's laying it out?" Wesley prompted her after a moment of – well, nothing.

"Of course," she replied with an abashed smile. She received a few understanding grins in response, which helped put her at ease, and she quickly gave them the gist of the information Lin had provided before adding in what little she'd learned from Maria Russo.

Once she'd finished and answered the few questions presented, Wesley said, "Thank you, Miss Fisher. This is excellent information, and it ties in perfectly with the lead Sergeant Kingston is currently chasing down."

"Oh?" she inquired, giving him an arched eyebrow. He managed to swallow a smile but his eyes crinkled with amusement.

"Indeed," he said, looking back over the room. "Your witness mentioned that our main suspect has the respect of her men, so he thinks that she'll either be bunking on the ship or in a hotel nearby, which will give her an easy escape route or plausible deniability should either be needed."

Phryne drew in a sharp breath at that, feeling another piece of the puzzle snap into place.

"Why, that's brilliant," she breathed in unwitting admiration; these people were the scum of the earth, but by God, they were intelligent scum.

(and now that she'd thought about it, that seemed rather unfair. Wouldn't intelligent nice people be more practical?)

"It is," Sheridan confirmed. "And Nelson let slip that she's from New Zealand; I've sent a telegram to confirm, but that will take time we don't have. In summation: Kingston's talking to the Harbourmaster to see if any ships from there have docked; if they have – God willing – he'll get her name. Regardless, we now have the presumed location of where our boys are being held, with confirmation that at least some of their captors are also there, and we have a moderately-solid description of either the head of this ring or someone very high up on the ladder."

Approving noises filled the room at this succinct summary and Sheridan allowed it for a minute before calling them back to the most pressing problem.

"So: we need a plan to infiltrate and rescue," he announced. Dead silence ensued for several seconds before the buzz of thoughts, ideas, and notions shattered it. In the middle of this madcap burst of planning, the door opened and a constable she recognized after several seconds as Lestrade ("_no relation, dammit!_") leaned in the room, finding Sheridan with his gaze and silently asking him to come over. His expression inquisitive, the inspector did; Phryne (who was also curious; Mac had once accused her of feeling upstaged by the cat her mother had acquired shortly after she'd become titled) was right on his heels.

"Yes?" Sheridan asked _sotto voce_ once he reached the door, absently positioning himself to keep their faces out of view of anyone in the corridor. Phryne wondered about that for a moment before mentally shrugging. Just because _she_ wasn't a naturally cautious person didn't mean she disapproved of the practice itself (well, mostly) and if it would help Jack, then they would do whatever was necessary, up to and including sign language.

"Sergeant Kingston called, Sir," Lestrade said in a low voice, leaning in so he could keep the conversation private while including Phryne. "He said he's got a name, Wendy Doolane, and the most recent sighting was her heading in the direction of the harbour about forty-five minutes ago. He and Drury are heading that way now."

"Excellent!" Sheridan breathed, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction and a hint of feral anticipation. "Thank you," he said absently to the young man before turning away – only to be stopped by a hand on his arm. The blank face and arched eyebrow would have intimidated most people, but Lestrade was Mason's constable. He merely straightened and lifted his chin defiantly, meeting the inspector's eyes without fear.

"We should be here, Sir," he said softly, but in a voice filled with resolve. "We were in Inverness, too, and it's our DI and sergeants she's taken. It's only right that we help bring them home."

Sheridan tilted his head and studied Lestrade for a long moment in silence, his expression now thoughtful. The boy – no, Phryne corrected herself, the young man – held his gaze without flinching. Approval slowly warmed Sheridan's eyes and he nodded. "All right," he agreed. "Go get Shepherd, Wilkins, and Parsons, and be back immediately."

Lestrade nodded and disappeared. Sheridan met Phryne's gaze and huffed in amusement, a tiny smirk curling his lips. "Loyalty should always be rewarded," he remarked quietly.

She considered that for a moment before slowly shaking her head.

"Not loyalty," she countered. "Fealty."

The satisfaction in his eyes flared and he inclined his head to her.

"You are very wise, Miss Fisher," he murmured. "Jack is a lucky man."

"As am I," she replied in the same tone, knowing he would take her meaning.

The anticipation she'd glimpsed earlier suddenly eclipsed everything else, and it was more than a little feral.

"Then why are we talking?" he said, inviting her to join him back at the planning board as the door behind them opened to admit the final members of their task force. Their return went as unnoticed as their exit had been, though Hopkins gave them both a narrow-eyed look when he glanced up and noticed the four additional men. In an uncharacteristic display of patience, Phryne said nothing as she watched Sheridan make the announcement of this new information and saw the rest immediately working to implement the knowledge into their existing pool of data.

No, she said nothing, but it was truly a struggle to hold back a premature feeling of satisfaction.

They were going to find Jack. They were going to find him, and Mason, and Page, and they were going to obliterate this ring, and – well, truthfully, she was looking forward to it far too much for anyone's liking, had they known.

But just as Jack had nearly killed Wayne Nelson for harming her, Phryne fully intended to repay the favour with this woman.

With interest.

And preferably – no, definitely – with her bare hands.

/*/*/*/*/

Mentally cursing himself for not carrying a lock pick (unlike Phryne, his brain snidely pointed out), Jack gave a frustrated yank on his shackle in a futile effort to loosen the wall bracket. When nothing happened but a sharp pain in his wrist, he heaved a giant sigh and slumped back against the (still) filthy wall, feeling panic start to press in and at a loss of what to do. As long as he was attached to the wall, he wasn't going anywhere, which rather put paid to his escaping this disgusting, claustrophobic room.

The door scraping open startled him out of his thoughts and Jack's head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise – it had only been about an hour since his last meal, and it was too early to be his designated 'relieve yourself' time, so with his luck, his captor was visiting again. Lovely. Juuust the person he wanted to see.

Richard Mason stuck his head in the door and gave a relieved smile on seeing his DI, who was gaping at him in absolute shock.

"You all right, Sir?" the other man asked, sweeping Jack with a quick once-over. "Not hurt, ready to get out of here?"

Luckily, Jack's wits had recovered and he said, "In order: yes, no, and oh, hell, yes!"

An understanding grin was his answer before his sergeant stepped into the room and said over his shoulder, "Make sure the hall stays clear, Kyle."

The relief that flooded through Jack actually made him a little light-headed; his men were safe – well, free – and in what seemed to be good condition. Mason was favouring his left arm a little as he crossed the floor, but it didn't seem debilitating, so Jack said only, "You two all right?" as Mason competently slipped a pick into the lock on the shackle and released his detective inspector.

"We are," was the brisk reply as he was gently but quickly helped to his feet. "Apparently, we couldn't be sold if we were damaged."

Jack was surprised at how little bitterness there was in the other man's voice, but then he remembered that Richard Mason was one of those (occasionally irritating) people who are completely accepting of everything, so long as the world isn't ending.

Of course, he then had to wonder how the man didn't consider being bought and sold to a slave ring as the world ending, but right now, Jack honestly could not have cared less.

"Small favours," he agreed as Mason opened the door and cautiously poked his head out, twisting both directions before asking the still-unseen Page, "Clear?"

"Clear," his other sergeant answered crisply. Mason nodded and stepped through the door, gesturing Jack to follow even as he plastered himself to the wall.

It was amazing, he mused, how easily he slipped back into the patterns of stealthy movements. He hadn't used them for over a decade, but apparently his body hadn't forgotten. Page, who seemed to be disheveled but unharmed, took point; Jack followed, and Mason fell in silently three paces behind him. How on earth Page knew where they were going, Jack couldn't fathom, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask.

"We've been looking for you for a while," Mason murmured behind him, nearly causing him to stumble (his nerves were still a bit – alright, a lot – on edge). "So, we've searched – well, every room in this hall, and checked the main exits we found. Once we had the way out, we memorized it and marked it."

Marked?

No. He still wasn't going to ask. He'd find out soon enough.

A sudden low rumble of voices started a soft curse from Page, who promptly made for the nearest door. Finding it unlocked, he pushed it open with quick, economical movements and then ducked inside.

"Quickly, Sir," he hissed, catching Jack's arm and yanking him forward. As he was still off-balance, both mentally and physically, from his unexpected rescue, Jack promptly tripped over nothing and very nearly face-planted on the floor (his mind absently noted that it was just as filthy as his cell floor had been; clearly, it was time to replace this building's cleaning staff). He was saved by Mason getting a fistful of his shirt and jerking back.

Miraculously, the material didn't tear and Jack quickly found his footing, twisting around in time to see Mason push the door shut with dangerous haste, only to stop it at the last second and close it almost soundlessly. He then positioned himself at the optimal place to do damage should someone try to enter the room and, as Jack watched in utter amazement, pulled out what had to have been his own arm shackle.

"I know," Page said from beside him, giving his friend a look of combined affection and irritation. "Mine was glued to the damn wall, I swear, and Mase gets the one attached by two threads and a prayer."

Since Jack had had very similar thoughts about Phryne and her ability to get herself into – and out of – trouble, he could only shrug.

"It's better than a battle of wits," he pointed out. Page gave him a pained look but said nothing (Jack hoped it was because he understood and conceded the point, but more likely, it was the result of hearing what sounded like a small platoon of troops tromping by).

Once the group had passed, they all let out deep breaths of sheer relief. Mason slumped against the wall while Jack and Page sank down on the cold, hard floor (they chose to bypass the mattress entirely, given that it was nearly the same colour as the concrete it was covering). There were a few moments of silence before Jack stirred, gave both his men a thorough once-over, and quietly asked, "Is it just us?" in a voice filled with tension. The two exchanged a look before Mason nodded.

"As best we can tell, at any rate," he confirmed. "Like I said, we checked every room in this hall and you were two from the end."

"Also," Page chimed in, "Since Mason got captured two days after I did, and you were two days later, it —"

He noticed Jack's dropped jaw and stuttered to a stop, blinking a few times before understanding broke across his face.

"Right. One of the men who brought food mentioned it to someone by the door when he left; I don't think he knew I heard him," he explained. As Mason didn't react, Jack could only surmise that they'd already had this conversation.

"So," he continued when it clear that Jack wasn't going to say anything, "I – we – think that once they got you, someone at City South put two and two together and made three. Also, it hasn't been a full two days yet, which seems to be their time frame, so either way, the odds are good that it's just us."

Jack took a few seconds to process this.

God, he loved being surrounded by intelligent people.

He gave them both approving smiles before nodding at the door. Mason swallowed and then carefully edged the heavy metal open a bare few inches before contorting himself into a position to ensure he remained unseen that made Jack's bruises throb in sympathy. His caution paid off, though, as a single person suddenly walked by, his (her?) steps quick but not rushed. There had been no outcry yet, but on reflection, that wasn't surprising. After the single visit from the woman, and not counting the men who brought his meals and slop buckets, Jack had seen no one. It stood to reason that Mason and Page had gotten the same treatment, so unless they gave themselves away, their escape would likely (please God) go unnoticed long enough for them to actually get away.

Mason's soft rasp of "It looks clear" startled him but in that regard, Phryne had been good for Jack's nerves; it took a great deal more than an unexpected sentence to elicit an external reaction.

"Well, then, let's go!" Page quietly urged from behind him. This was a sentiment Jack heartily agreed with and the two of them came up to press themselves against the wall, Page stepping in front of his DI, while Mason carefully closed the door until there was barely an inch of open space (wherein Page took over Door Duty) before slipping in behind Jack. Despite their collective mounting impatience, Page still waited another full minute before opening the door and easing out.

Twisting his head in both directions, he made one final check to ensure the hall was empty before gesturing Jack and Mason to join him. Once the three of them were in the open, Page started walking. His entire posture abruptly screamed 'I am King of This Hall and you WILL bow down to me' and Jack couldn't help but give Mason a disbelieving look. It was returned with a shrug and a whispered, "If we tiptoe, we'll just look suspicious. If we act like belong here, we're less likely to be caught out on a first look."

Which Jack knew, of course; he just hadn't expected _Page_ to pull off monarchial arrogance so very well. It seemed he'd been practicing.

Huh. Maybe he should send Collins out with Page a few times; after all, it wasn't like the boy could get any _less_ forceful.

To his surprise, they made it out of the building with no difficulty and into a surprisingly cool, cloudy day. Page blew out an enormous sigh of relief as they cleared the door (marked with a partial bloody thumbprint) and Mason gusted out a soft laugh. Jack had just started to trust the situation enough to let his triumph show when the sound of a gun being cocked uncomfortably close behind him made him close his eyes.

"And this, Inspector, is why I don't like spirit in my men," purred a voice he despised in spite of only being forced to endure it once.

He didn't have the chance to come up with a good (well, any) retort before another voice spoke, a voice he wouldn't have imagined hearing in a hundred years.

"We have you surrounded!" Detective Inspector Wesley Sheridan announced to the world at large from wherever the hell he was stationed. "And we have your men in custody, Doolane. You've lost. Step away from the inspector, place your weapon on the ground, and remain kneeling with your hands behind your head."

It seemed that Melbourne stopped breathing so it could hear her response.

When it came, Jack honestly couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry.

"More trouble than it's worth," she said so quietly that Jack was the only one who heard.

"Drop. Your. Weapon!" Sheridan bellowed.

And Jack knew. He wasn't going to get yelled at by Phryne for not taking that last step of commitment or scolded for letting himself be kidnapped. He wasn't going to get to see her smile with delight or bask in the satisfaction of solving a case, or simply glow with life.

He'd never again get to hear her say, "I love you, Jack Robinson."

And he wasn't going to get to tell her that he adored her, that he wanted to give her every bit of happiness the world had denied her, that she was the reason his heart beat in his chest.

Rage suddenly washed through him, because if this bitch thought she was going to win, she had another think coming. If he had to die today, then by God, she was going with him.

The same icy calm he'd felt while dealing with Nelson's ring fell over him and Jack softly exhaled, catching a movement from the corner of his eye. He dipped his chin as he closed his eyes, clenching both hands into fists and flexing them back out, his fingers loosely curling while he drew in a breath as shallow as the one he'd let out. He would only have one chance.

"NOW!" his Inverness counterpart – his friend – thundered, sounding apoplectic . . . and he heard it. It was minute, but the catch in her breath and the scuff of a shoe told him she was off-balance. He moved.

And his world became the sound of a gunshot.

/*/*/*/*/


	5. Thirteen Conversations about One Thing

From her position at Sheridan's side, Phryne tried very hard not to fret. Rounding up the woman's minions had proved startling easy . . . suspiciously so, in fact. And now they knew why.

Phryne was truly coming to despise intelligent criminals.

And so she was torn between paralysis and rage as she watched Wendy Doolane hold a gun to Jack's head and smile like she was in charge. Page and Mason were frozen mid-step, exuding fury, and from the looks on their faces, a minuscule opening was all they needed; they'd reacted a split second too late when Doolane appeared, though Phryne couldn't truly blame them for it; who would have expected an ambush just as they emerged from captivity?

Which, on reflection, really was an appalling oversight. Where else could it possibly have occurred?

So now here they were, a veritable army of police officers surrounding the building, armed and all too eager to shoot the person who'd taken their DI and two of their colleagues.

That very few of them had any qualms about shooting a woman was a testament to the station's feelings about Jack Robinson.

That they were being held at bay by one single gun was more than sufficient to enrage every last one of them. Had Wendy Doolane been a man, there were no circumstances in which she would have walked away. Or lived.

Not that either condition was a guarantee for the woman as things stood now, mind.

Phryne hated with every fiber of her being that she was, in essence, shackled to Wesley's side, but his amiability had vanished in the face of this operation and he'd told her in no uncertain terms that if she thought he was picking up the ruins of Melbourne that Jack would leave should she be injured, she wasn't nearly as intelligent as he'd believed.

This was a fair point.

So they'd compromised: Phryne could accompany them, but she wasn't to leave Sheridan's side under any circumstances. If she did, he would have her arrested and sent back to City South. And, partly because of her but mostly because Sheridan refused to give this woman any additional advantages, they were hidden behind a somewhat holey wall (and _what_ was it about smart criminals that meant they always managed to find buildings in good shape, but in the worst areas? Was there some sort of criminal conglomeration set up – 'Rent a Building for a Crime' – that she wasn't aware of?). It meant that Doolane couldn't see them, which was good, but neither could Jack.

Which . . . was also good – well, for everyone but Phryne. She needed to see him and have him see her, so he would know that she loved him, that she'd come for him, that he would be coming home.

Naturally, it all went to hell.

The woman refused to obey Sheridan's demands to lower her weapon and surrender, and on his third – and final – order, several things happened at once, things that Phryne would relive in vivid detail for a very long time.

A gunshot rang out and the world stopped.

_**JACK!**_

He fell.

— "_Jack!"  
— a spray of blood hanging obscenely in the air before falling to splatter on the pavement  
— Page lunging at Doolane with the force of hell unleashed  
— his unearthly snarl: "Pray he's alive."  
— Doolane staggering back as Jack's full weight crashed against her  
— Mason throwing himself down in a valiant effort to break his fall.  
— Will Hawkins exploding from nowhere like an avenging angel, gun in one hand and shackles in the other  
— Hugh Collins bursting out behind him, his eyes wide with rage (fear) as he actually leaped over the tangle of bodies at his feet  
— his white face and shaking hands as he frantically examined his inspector, desperate prayers and bitter curses falling from his lips_

Time snapped back into place.

A pained groan froze everyone as Jack flailed an arm and accidentally hit Collins in the mouth (though it was a weak hit; were the situation less serious, everyone would probably have been embarrassed for him).

Phryne would never remember tearing free of Sheridan's restraining grip, or of crossing the three hundred yards separating her from Jack like it was an Olympic sport. She stumbled the last few steps and skidded to her knees at his side, barely registering the sting of her abrupt stop and not even seeing Mason and Page roughly hauling Doolane away from them. Tears clogging her throat, she choked, "Jack!" as she reached for his hand, only to hesitate at the last instant for fear of hurting him.

For another few seconds there was nothing, and then he groaned again before slowly blinking to clear his eyes. They were hazy and bloodshot, his face was covered with two days of beard, and he looked like he'd been hit by a lorry, but Jack was _alive _and awake and the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. When he saw her, a smile the size of Europe came to his lips and he rasped, "Phryne," as he reached for her.

She caught his hand in hers and pulled it to her lips, peppering his skin with kisses and failing utterly to hold back her tears. Jack said nothing else but he managed to get his other arm up so he could take her shoulder and insistently tug. Though still afraid of hurting him, Phryne willingly went and a second later, they were kissing so desperately that everyone within eyeshot actually turned away to give their reunion some privacy (they would find this out later and in an odd turn of events, Phryne would go a little pink and Jack would smirk).

It wasn't lack of air that finally forced them to separate, though it was becoming a concern; it was the combination of cold and what Phryne was abruptly reminded was an extremely uncomfortable position. She slowly pulled away from his lips only to rest her forehead on his and as they gazed intently at each other (causing a few of the younger officers to suddenly want to vomit), he caressed her cheek before whispering, "I love you, Phryne Fisher."

It was completely anti-climactic and the one thing that could have calmed her down. Her mouth curving in a smile, she breathed, "I love you, Jack Robinson," against his lips before giving him one last tender kiss. It was just for a few seconds and then she reluctantly pulled away, shivering as a sudden gust of cold wind blew past them. Wesley – who had arrived God knew when – silently helped her to her feet before handing her his jacket. She absently pulled it on as a group of ambulance workers, led by Mac (whom Dot had had the foresight to call the second the taskforce left the station), brushed past her. Mac paused long enough to catch and squeeze her hand but her attention was focused on Jack, and Phryne said nothing to her; she knew that Mac would work whatever miracles were necessary to ensure that he came home.

In an astonishingly short amount of time, all three of the abducted men had been gathered up and loaded on ambulances (Mason and Page had vehemently objected, even over Sheridan's 'detective inspector' glare, but Jack had been roused by the noise and found enough strength to growl, "Enough. You're going" – and hear two chastened replies of "Yes, Sir" – before meeting Phryne's eyes with a loving smile as his body overrode his will and he mercifully passed out.

Once the ambulance carrying her heart was gone, taking the last of her restraint with it, Phryne turned her focus on the cause of her anguish. In a small corner of her mind, she was surprised to note that the white-hot anger that had been burning in her for more than two endless days was no longer licking at her throat. In its place was a cold, calculated fury that would annihilate her target, but leave everything else untouched.

And her target was Wendy Doolane.

Wesley Sheridan took one look at her expression and closed his eyes in resignation before stepping to one side, shaking his head and muttering what she thought was a prayer (or maybe a confession). His actions stopped Will Hawkins' protest before he could actually voice it and he also moved away. Reluctance was rife in both men's movements but so long as they didn't interfere, Phryne could not have cared less. As she approached the shackled woman, currently having her injured shoulder seen to (Hawkins was a superb shot; he'd almost destroyed her shoulder joint with a single bullet from behind), a careful hand brushed her arm, and Sheridan breathed, "You will not kill her," in her ear as she walked by him. Hers wasn't a berserkers rage and so she nodded her consent to his order before putting her full attention on the woman who'd so nearly destroyed her heart.

Doolane met her eyes with perfect equanimity and smiled. It was a calm smile, almost – friendly – and the sight of it would have enraged Jack beyond reason. Phryne merely smiled back.

And the young man who was finishing up the application of a bandage swallowed. Hard. Then he scuttled back after shooting a beseeching look at Sheridan. Phryne ignored all of this and stalked forward, stopping less than an arm's length away.

For a long moment, the two women simply took the other's measure in silence. Phryne broke it first, because she had no intention of letting this – person – have any control over the situation. Also, she fully intended to punish the bitch for daring to lay a hand on Jack – and that wasn't taking into account the hundreds of people she and her ring had bought and sold – but he would be fine. He was coming home to her. So Doolane's death wasn't a necessity and in fact, Phryne would much rather see her suffer in gaol.

With that in mind, Phryne stepped a little closer, whispered, "You should not have touched him," into a surprisingly small ear, and with a suddenness that surprised their observers, grabbed the woman's injured shoulder, digging her thumb into a spot just next to the actual bullet wound itself. A shocked gasp fell from Doolane's lips as fresh blood stained the new bandage and she tried desperately to grab Phryne's hand, only to be thwarted by the shackles she wore. Phryne held her for seven seconds before letting her go and while the other woman reeled on her feet, she smiled again, lifted her hand, and backhanded her hard enough to unbalance her. The enormous emerald on the ring she hadn't even realized she'd put on cut an ugly gash across that elegant cheekbone and Doolane hit her knees on the rough ground, breathless with pain, and stared up at Phryne, her jaw red and already beginning to swell beneath the dripping blood.

Jack's woman reveled for a moment when eyes the colour of dead leaves clouded with fear before she smiled again, turned on her heel, and walked away. She gave Sheridan a nod that he absently returned, his eyes filled with horrified admiration and his expression one of approving shock (or maybe it was the other way 'round). Hawkins actually bowed, radiating approval. His gaze told her he was deeply impressed (and just as deeply shocked, though she'd expected that), but he said nothing; he just gave her a slight grin.

"Collins," he suddenly called, looking over her shoulder, and Phryne glanced back as Hugh immediately came to her side.

"I'll escort you home, Miss Fisher," he said quietly as he offered her his arm.

She shook her head. "No," she replied firmly. "Hospital. I want to see Jack."

"You will," the young man assured her. "Dr MacMillan told me that unless he had a serious injury hiding under his shirt – which is unlikely – she'd just need to bandage him up, give him some pain medication, and take him to your house."

She actually stopped walking at that, giving Hugh a perplexed look. When had Mac . . . ?

Hugh saw her confusion and smiled. "She told me while you and the inspector were – uh, getting . . . reacquainted," he told her, blushing furiously. In spite of herself, the sight made Phryne smile in fond amusement. She did quite adore Hugh Collins.

"Very well, then," she assented, taking his arm again. "Shall we?"

And during the interminably long drive to her St Kilda home, Phryne Fisher did something for the first time in her life: she bowed her head and thanked God for keeping Jack safe and giving him back to her.

After all, a woman couldn't live without her heart.

/*/*/*/*/

When Dr Elizabeth MacMillan parked in front of Phyne's wonderfully eccentric home, she sat there for a few minutes before heaving a resigned sigh and getting out. Maneuvering a groggy detective inspector who was lean but well-muscled out of the back seat was a giant, bloody pain in her arse but she managed – and once his feet hit the pavement (and the slowly emerging sunlight hit his eyes), he woke up enough to help and they made their way to the door, looking remarkably like a pair of drunken whoremongers (or something out of _The Pirates of Penzance_).

She had to smile when she saw it was Mr Butler waiting to assist her; doubtless he and Dot had banished Phryne to a locked room for the duration. She waved him off, though, until they'd arrived at the door but gave him a grateful 'thank you' when he took the man's weight away from her, for the walk had exhausted the inspector. Bert and Cec were waiting by the stairs, wearing matching scowls. Despite that, the pair was remarkably gentle with him as they helped (alright, carried) their mistress' chosen mate up to the bedroom he shared with her.

Mac followed closely, making sure that he wasn't jostled too badly during the trip, and was vaguely aware of Mr Butler vanishing back to the kitchen. Doubtless he'd arrive in a bit with food, drink, and anything else that might help, so she dismissed him from her thoughts and carefully squeezed past the group of three men in order to enter the room. Phryne was waiting; her face was serene but in typical Phryne Fisher fashion, her eyes were simultaneously dark with worry and bright with relief and joy. Mac would have rolled her own eyes, but she was a tad occupied with directing her friend's charming Communists in getting her less charming inspector in the bed and comfortable.

In a rare display of patience, Phryne said nothing and stayed out of the way as they got him settled. The second it was done, Cec mumbled, "We'll see you later, Miss," as he and Bert edged toward the door. Their mistress gave them both approving nods and a soft "Thank you, boys" before turning her full attention to her injured mate. The pair quickly escaped, leaving Mac alone with her oldest friend, her lover, and the elephant in the room.

This was not her idea of a good time.

Nonetheless, one of her responsibilities as Phryne Fisher's Best Friend was occasionally reminding her that she wasn't actually perfect, nor was she always faultless in the various spats, arguments, and general disagreements she found herself in.

Which was also not her idea of a good time.

The soft whisper of "Oh, Jack" tested her resolve, especially when she turned her head and saw Phryne carefully gathering his hand in hers and bringing it to her lips. But he didn't stir and so Mac quietly cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side when Phryne looked up at her, indicating that she wanted her friend to join her in the sitting room. Her face screwed up in a wordless protest, but Mr Butler's arrival headed that off at the pass. He was loaded for bear with a bowl of steaming hot water, towels, and what looked like a men's shaving kit, and Mac smiled. Though she didn't envy Phryne's current wealth or status in society – and she sure as hell didn't want the relatives that came with them – she would have given a great deal to have her own Mr Butler (or Phryne's; she wasn't picky).

Her objection to leaving Jack's side neatly cut off, Phryne gave in to the inevitable and joined Mac in the outer room, leaving her butler to bask in his enjoyment of finally having a man to assist.

(Tobias Butler adored his mistress, but there were a great many things that he wasn't able (or willing, to be perfectly honest) to do for her and he positively relished having a master of the house)

"He's fine, Phryne, I promise," she said the second the door closed. "And yes, I'm sure," she added firmly, inwardly smirking at her friend's aggravated glare. Phryne absolutely detested being outdone and while Mac could understand that in this case, she had neither the time nor the patience to accommodate her. Jack was bruised and would be sore for a while, but he was essentially healthy.

"All right," she continued, leaning back against the wall and giving Phryne a narrow-eyed look as she settled herself in the chair closest to the bedroom door. "Spill it. What's going on with you two?"

She could see the 'nothing' forming on Phryne's lips, but to her surprise, the woman herself cut it off and instead sighed heavily.

"I don't know, Mac," she said despondently, staring at her hand as though it held the secret to life. "He won't move all the way in and still has his flat, which he's used, and I don't know why or how to fix it."

Blinking, Mac took a minute to process that. Well, it wasn't what she'd anticipated hearing, but she was so glad of that; truthfully, she'd been expecting something along the lines of 'I hate being in a real relationship and I want OUT,' so this situation was definitely salvageable.

And this was _still_ not her idea of a good time, dammit!

But, knowing how inexperienced Phryne was about romantic relationships, Mac reined her impatience in and started small.

"I'll confess to being surprised at hearing you say that," she dryly observed, giving her a small grin. "I'd have thought you'd love him having his own place."

"So did I," Phryne replied, looking a little . . . lost. "And in that first month, it completely made sense."

Only for Phryne Fisher would that statement be an understandable given.

"But it's been four months, Mac! You'd think by now that he would _want_ to be here. I just – I don't understand what I'm doing wrong."

Mac gave that serious thought before answering, still marveling that she was having this conversation.

"I don't know that you're doing anything wrong," she eventually said, pouring both of them whiskey shots before claiming the other chair. "But he is a man, Phryne, and they don't always . . . well . . . they tend to be rather dim when it comes to women – and as much as I love you, you aren't always the most forthcoming person, particularly when it comes to situations that you're uncomfortable with."

"I —" Phryne began, but Mac headed that off, too.

"You are. And it's both understandable and reasonable. It isn't like you've ever been in this situation – you know, in love with a man _and _living with him. So of course you're going to be unsure and it follows that you're going to make mistakes."

Mac paused here and held Phryne's eyes, willing her to actually hear what was being said.

"And so is he."

Silence fell, and it was heavy but not uncomfortable. After a few minutes, when Phryne showed no signs of speaking, Mac risked making one final point.

"As to why your inspector won't go all in and give up his flat, well . . . have you ever asked him to? Or told him he could?"

A quietly bitter, extremely amused laugh met this question and Mac frowned, giving her best friend a puzzled look.

"You're the second person to ask me that," she explained, her voice dark with irony. "So it seems that my powers of observation aren't nearly as well-honed as I thought. No, Mac, it never occurred to me to say something. For some strange reason, I thought it was unnecessary."

Which, Mac had to concede, was a fair point, though it didn't quite take into account Jack's previously-married state and the reason for it being ended.

So she said so.

"Given how his marriage ended – and given your stance on the institution thereof – is it really so surprising that he was skittish?"

A wry look was her answer and she smiled just as ruefully; this was Phryne she was talking to. Once the logistics had been pointed out to her, she would have wasted no time in working through them.

Her friend nodded at Mac's 'aahh' expression and a slight smile trembled on her lips.

"I just don't know what to say to him, Mac," she whispered, sounding the tiniest bit heartbroken.

For that, Mac would quite happily have stabbed Jack Robinson herself.

Still, Phryne was happy with him and she had admitted to her own errors (which, to be honest, was a miracle of Biblical proportions), so Mac bit back an aggravated sigh – really, did she _look_ like a relationship counselor?! – and instead went to her friend, dropping to a knee and gathering her into the hug she so desperately needed. And after the storm of tears had passed and Phryne had calmed somewhat, Mac leaned back, snagged her drink, and handed it to her with a solemn look.

"Do you what you always do, Phryne Fisher. Be honest with him and tell him how you feel."

Phryne sniffled and scrubbed a hand across her eyes before meeting Mac's gaze.

"What if he doesn't accept how I feel?" she asked plainly, her voice steady in spite of the lingering traces of her earlier tears.

"Then you'll have to work it out," Mac replied carefully. The ice was thinner than she'd realized, which very nearly made her reconsider her next statement. But it had to be said, because Phryne wasn't at a point where she'd think of it herself.

"And you'll have to decide what's more important to you: your happiness, yours _and_ his, or your respective pride."

Utter stillness.

"But whatever your choice is, when it's all said and done, just . . . make sure you can live with it."

And if it took divine intervention to see to it that Phryne's choice ensured her happiness, then Mac was ready and willing to sacrifice a goat (or twelve) to the cause.

/*/*/*/*/ c6

Once Mac had gone (with a stern warning not to engage Jack in any strenuous activity for twenty-four hours), Dot had reassured herself of her mistress' well-being and been given assurances that it was beyond fine for her to go out with Hugh ("no, Dot, truly, please go; there's nothing you can do for me at the moment"), and Mr Butler had finished his ministrations (apparently Jack had swum to consciousness long enough to grant him permission to shave off the worst of the beard; being something of a perfectionist, he'd gone ahead and done the full shave), Phryne stood just inside the door to their bedroom and simply watched him sleep, counting each breath as she reassured herself that he was safe, he was home, and he was fine.

He was fine.

She'd unloaded her anger and grief on Mac, and no small amount of her relief. But now, watching the man she loved recover in her – in _their –_ bed, she felt the full extent of the day's events hit with the force of a hurricane and without even realizing it, she slowly slid down the door until she was seated on her plush carpet, knees hugged to her chest and tears pouring unchecked down her cheeks as she lost her tenuous hold over the emotions she'd so successfully kept locked down for the last two – no, it was three now, wasn't it? – days.

She retained enough self-possession to cry silently, but Jack apparently had some kind of sixth sense when it came to crying women.

Or maybe it was just her.

Whichever one it was, his soft murmur of "Phryne?" broke through the emotional swamp she was drowning in and she looked up, feeling a contradictory mix of soul-stealing relief and self-conscious guilt at the sight of his eyes, open (thank God) and full of love.

Also, concern.

With a wobbly smile that didn't fool him for a second, she wiped at her eyes, trying to brush away the tears and succeeding only in making her vision blurry. He allowed this for a minute, but finally said her name again, this time in a stronger voice, and she stared in surprise at the hand he was holding out to her. The effort was visibly tiring him, but he set his jaw and endured, silently asking her to come to him. God Himself couldn't have stopped Phryne at that point and she climbed to her feet, stumbling a bit as she straightened but steady enough to cross the room in four huge strides. She caught his hand in hers and breathed his name, hearing her voice catch and not giving a damn; Jack was safe and home, and that was all that mattered.

He gave her the same crooked smile that had ensnared her from the beginning and lightly tugged, drawing her down until she was forced to lay at his side in order to avoid collapsing on top of him. Admittedly, this didn't take much convincing and she was quickly settled in, her head on his shoulder and their joined hands resting just below her chin. When she looked at his face again, his smile had acquired a quality that could only be described as 'smug' and she rolled her eyes before curling a little more tightly against him. Exhaustion suddenly hit her like a hammer and she yawned, feeling his chest vibrate as he chuckled.

"Sleep, love," he whispered, his warm breath caressing her cheek. "We're home and we're safe, and I promise that I'll be here when you wake up."

That broke through her exhaustion enough to earn a tart rejoinder of, "You'd better be; if you think I'm getting dressed again to go looking for you, you've lost your mind."

This time, he outright laughed and his arms tightened around her.

"I love you, too," he said, the laughter in his voice only emphasizing the sincerity.

"I know," she replied smugly, brushing a kiss over the warm skin of the hollow of his throat. "I am magnificent, after all."

There was a startled beat of silence before Jack snickered and kissed her hair.

"That you are, Phryne Fisher," he agreed tenderly, without a trace of irony. "That you are."

No more words were spoken as they drifted off, wrapped securely in each other's arms.

And outside their world of two, the last of the clouds melted away.

(a sight at which, had they been awake, Phryne would have rolled her eyes, Jack would have sighed, and there would have been a disgusted mutter of "Really? We're really that cliché?" while they both fought off nausea)

But they weren't awake, because God isn't stupid.

He does have a sense of humour, though.

/*/*/*/*/


	6. Yours, Mine, and Ours

When Jack finally woke all the way up, it was dark, he was disoriented, and his body collectively felt like he'd been thrown from a horse before being run over by the rest of the herd. His breath hitched in fear at the thought that he hadn't escaped (been rescued? How did it work if you walked out on your own two feet, only to have someone else shoot the person who'd taken you captive again after you'd escaped?) after all. A soft snuffle distracted him before panic could set in and he looked down, relief making him boneless at the sight of Phryne's dark hair splayed across his shoulder.

Closing his eyes, he simply took a few minutes to breathe and let himself trust that it was over, and he was home.

Home.

Yes. Yes, it was. And he no longer cared if Phryne might feel stifled or overwhelmed once he and all his possessions (well, the ones he wanted to keep, anyway) had permanently taken up residence here.

Alright, no, that wasn't true. He would care a great deal if Phryne wasn't happy with the arrangement, but they'd work it out. Jack was tired of this limbo and since it seemed that she wasn't going to ask, he would. He was less bothered by this than he had been a week ago.

Huh.

Funny what being kidnapped – not to mention nearly being shot – did to a man.

"You're thinking, Jack. It's making my head hurt."

Had Phryne not been lying half on top of him, he would have surged bolt upright on the bed in sheer fright. As it was, his muscles tensed as though to try anyway and he promptly groaned.

"Jack!"

The alarm in her voice grounded him and he absently squeezed the hand he hadn't realized he was holding. "I'm fine, love. Just a bit sore."

A minute of silence followed this statement. If it had had a face, there would have been an arched eyebrow.

Jack sighed and capitulated; he drew her a little closer, dropping his chin so he could nuzzle her hair.

"Fine. I'm a lot sore."

The eyebrow went higher.

"No, really," he insisted, hiding a smile. "I wasn't an easy capture, but other than that, they never touched me."

She huffed and pushed herself back a little, enough so she could see his face.

"Truly?" she asked plaintively, desperately seeking reassurance. He gave it without hesitation.

"Truly," he confirmed, letting her see it in his eyes.

Her gaze searched his for a long moment before she nodded and put her head back on his shoulder. They lay quietly for a bit, not speaking, just . . . soaking in the other's presence. Consequently, Jack very nearly flinched in surprise when Phryne abruptly said, "Move in, Jack. Bring your collection of football and _Tour de France_ memorabilia and that hideously comfortable chair that clashes with every piece of furniture I own, and all of your books – particularly the ones you don't want me to know you own. I want you to throw your coat over my chaise and leave your hat on whatever available surface you walk by first."

She paused for a split second and then continued, the raw honesty in her voice making his breath catch.

"But most of all, Jack, I want you _here._ With me, leaving wet towels in improbable places and driving Mr Butler mad because that would make two of us. I just want _you_."

Stunned, Jack could only breathe through the joy rushing through his blood. She wanted him. Oh, thank God. Phryne wanted him. All of him.

But it seemed he'd been stunned silent too long, because the next thing he heard was a soft, pleading, "Jack?"

Her fear hit him like a bucket of ice water and he struggled to sit up, getting halfway before his body rebelled and stopped him in an awkward reclining position. The expression on her face drove any discomfort out of his mind and he reached for her, ignoring the flare of pain in his ribs in his determination to get her in his arms.

The second he accomplished this, he kissed her, and it was hungry and yearning and desperate and almost overwhelming. If he hadn't been so damned sore, Jack would have made love to her right then, but though certain parts of his body were up to the challenge, they were shouted down by the rest of him, and the majority won after the final votes were tallied. Lovemaking wasn't currently an option.

Bugger.

But he could kiss her and so he did, pouring every emotion he had into her mouth because it was the only way he could crawl inside her and take up residence. She accepted everything he was offering with a greedy hunger that matched his and they finally broke apart because Jack's vision was going black at the edges from lack of air.

"Yes," he told her fervently after he'd re-oxygenated himself, peppering her face with kisses and whispered affirmatives while she curled her arms around his neck and gave herself over to the storm of his emotions.

It took a while for it to quiet, but when he finally calmed, Jack shifted carefully and managed to get fully upright, with Phryne providing support (and pillows) until he was able to rest against the headboard. And then, possibly because she was tired of the long silences (Phryne was not a person who liked 'quiet' under – well, pretty much any circumstances), and also because, as a nurse, she held the philosophy of 'yanking the bandage off,' she jumped directly in to the next thing that had been bothering them both.

"I'm thrilled that you said 'yes' to moving in, Jack, but I still don't understand why it was necessary to ask," she said firmly, though with a hint of trepidation. It was a touch surprising, given the tender moment they'd just shared, but it did need to be addressed and Phryne was nothing if not pragmatic. It was one of the things he loved most about her – especially given his own practical nature. In addition, given what she'd been through these past few days, it stood to reason that everything she'd been ignoring had come flooding back with the release of tension (this was an educated guess, given that Jack was experiencing that very phenomenon). Factor in the irritation that had been building for the past three months and this was inevitable.

He was opening his mouth to answer when she continued, and after a few seconds of bemusement, Jack mentally shrugged and set himself to wait. Either way, they'd both get to talk. Who went first was immaterial.

"I guess – I guess I'm confused, Jack," she said, which took him off-guard. Why . . . ?

"When we decided to do this – be a couple, I mean – you told me that you wouldn't accept anything less than 'all the way,'" she continued steadily.

He remembered it well. That night would probably remain indelibly etched into his memory for life.

"So, with that – caveat, one could say, and my acceptance of it, why did you not begin making plans to move in? I understand your hesitance in those first few weeks," she hastened to add before he could say anything, "and I fully approved your caution; harmonious relationships do not always equate to harmonious living, after all. But I must confess, Jack, that you still feeling the need to keep a safety net three months later . . . it hurt me," she said frankly, and he felt like he'd been hit in the gut. He had once thought, not long after they'd gotten together (and once – alright, twice – before that, if he were being honest), to make a thorough search of Australia before heading to the continent, find every person who'd ever hurt her, and round them up with the express purpose of dropping them into a giant hole in the ground (or a volcano; he wasn't all that particular).

And now she was telling him that he'd hurt her in the process of trying to make one of the stresses of a relationship easier for her.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to his life.

Nonetheless, it was the opening he'd been seeking for three months, and he could no longer afford to hesitate about taking it. With a deep breath (_ow_. Ribs.), he took her hand and smiled when she immediately curled her fingers around his and squeezed.

"I – there's two reasons, really," he began, taking great care of his words and mentally castigating himself for not having planned this conversation out beforehand. "The first is that you've never lived full-stop with someone you're romantically involved with, and you don't know how – how _close_ that can be."

"I would have adapted," she said sharply, trying to pull her hand free. He refused to allow this and instead tugged it (and by extension her) closer to him, brushing a kiss over her still-parted lips and smiling at her irritated huff.

"Doubtless," he agreed. "But after what happened with Rosie, I will confess to being a little gun-shy. And no," he carried on before the objection in her eyes made it to her mouth, "it's not fair to put my issues with Rosie on you. But honestly, Phryne, there's very little of that."

"Then why say it?" she asked with a dangerous kind of civility. He winced internally but bravely carried on. He'd already taken his life in his hands; not following through would be rather stupid.

"Because it is a part of my reasoning," he said gently, catching her gaze and refusing to let her look away.

"But the other part is – God, Phryne, I don't —"

He broke off in aggravation and shook his head, frustrated because he still couldn't see a way to explaining his position without hurting her.

"Jack?"

Her simple but concerned query helped settle his nerves, but there was no way to make this painless and he had to mentally brace himself before he was able to continue.

"You know how you like to vanish sometimes when you just want to be alone? You don't want to talk to anyone or see anyone, or even admit that other people exist?" he started, choosing a different tack and hoping for the best.

She blinked in surprise at the unexpected question, but readily nodded.

"All right. And when you do that, how often do I bother you – cases aside – before you're ready to rejoin us?"

She blinked again before saying, "You? You haven't, I don't think. But wha—"

"Exactly," he said quickly, cutting her off. He needed to get this out because the frustration was building by the hour now, and it wouldn't take much longer for one of them to explode. "And how many times have I gone off somewhere, like the back parlour, for example, and been settled in reading or just staring out the window, and you came looking for me?"

Guilt crept into her expression and he knew that she understood, but he needed her to say it out loud. Phryne was one of the most considerate people he knew – when she was thinking about it. When she was on a tear, all bets were off. And that's what bothered Jack. When she found something on one of their cases – or she needed help on one of hers – then he bloody well _better_ be bothered. But when it was just Phryne wanting his attention because – well, because, that was different. And frustrating. He loved that Phryne wanted to be with him, and most of the time he wanted to be with her, but sometimes a man – no, that was a rationalization. Sometimes _he,_ Jack Robinson, just needed his space.

"I know, Jack," she said softly, remorsefully. "I didn't realize – it didn't even occur to me, though God only knows why," she added with a touch of self-deprecation. "And it doesn't excuse my behaviour, I know, but you do have a tendency to brood and I hate seeing that, because it's never a happy place for you."

That was a reasonable point and something he hadn't considered. But it did little to dull the edge of his frustration because she seldom bothered to ask if anything was bothering him before dragging him off (and would you have _told_ her? his brain sarcastically demanded. The answer was 'I don't know,' but either way, you can't tell someone who doesn't ask.). The sound of her voice told him Phryne was still talking and Jack hastily returned his attention to her.

"—y didn't you ever _tell_ me you didn't want to be bothered – or mention that I was intruding?"

She asked it earnestly, but there was an edge of accusation in her voice that Jack resented, but also (to his irritation) understood.

"Because I didn't want to hurt your feelings," he replied bluntly (ah. Apparently he was more resentful than he'd realized.). "And I couldn't think of a good way to say it. But because of the . . . living situation, I also didn't think I had the right to ask for a – a private room, I guess you could call it."

There was another long silence (really, they were getting good at them, he thought with some exasperation) that Phryne broke with a snort of amusement.

"What?" he asked warily when she said nothing.

A rueful smile crossed her lips and she leaned against him, letting out a soft sigh that made him shiver when it caressed his neck.

"I was thinking about that earlier," she explained, absently stroking his chest. It was soothing and he felt himself relaxing a little. To his horror, he also felt what might be termed a 'purr' swelling up as well. A quick indrawn breath stopped that in its tracks and he gritted his teeth as he rode out the small but incredibly sharp spike of pain that was his ribs registering their protest. It faded quickly, though, and he turned to Phryne, intending to continue their conversation. Instead, he was met with a quizzical look.

"Ribs," was all he said; her face immediately darkened, but her only other outward response was to squeeze his hand a little tighter.

In an effort to bring them back to an even keel – not to mention finish this excruciating torture otherwise known as A Talk About Their Feelings – he gave her his wide-eyed little boy look, which had absolutely floored him the first time he'd used it on her . . . and it had worked. As always, her resistance drained away and she smiled, sitting back up into a cross-legged position and meeting his eyes with the candid openness that intrigued and enchanted him in equal measure.

"You were thinking about 'what' earlier?" he prompted gently, relaxing back against his pile of pillows.

"Hmm? Oh. What you said about a private room," she explained, looking a touch shamefaced. He frowned in confusion, wordlessly waiting for her to continue. Her cheeks going a little pink, she obliged.

"Well, it – I became aware of the fact that you might be using your flat to escape the Wicked Witch of the West during that certain time of the month," she started, and Jack evidently felt that her blush needed company.

"And I can't say that I blame you for it; I know that I'm irrational and utterly unreasonable for at least twenty-four hours, and sometimes longer, so I don't fault you for wanting to be elsewhere."

She paused for a few seconds here, visibly steeling herself to continue.

"And if you were to, I don't know, go out for the evening with friends, or even kip on their couch that night, it wouldn't have bothered me."

Jack nodded slowly; he could understand that.

"But to have a place that you kept so you could run away and hide —"

He started to interrupt, because that was not fair (well, not entirely fair, honesty compelled him to admit), but she spoke over him without even realizing it.

"I just . . . I'm not all right with that, Jack, and I'm not going to be. If you want a private space just for you, then go through this house and pick out any room you want. You can have them all if you like!"

At that, he had to blink away what might have been moisture (and tell himself it was out of surprise and not gratitude. Or adoration for his maddening, generous, understanding woman.).

"You can have anything of mine that you want, Jack," she finished, her eyes filling with tears again. "Whatever makes you happy, so long as you're here – you're _happy_ – with me."

Again, his only response was a blink, because it was that or start bawling in front of her. He managed to keep himself under control, though, and reached out to cup her face in his hands, giving her a tender smile and a kiss that was raw and aching with love.

"Then when I'm up and around," he said huskily, watching her closely as he leaned back and let his hands fall to his lap, "you'll have to give me the full-on Phryne Fisher tour, and I'll choose my refuge."

A watery smile was his answer and he mentally frowned. Not good enough; she wasn't happy.

Hmm. What if he . . . ?

"Then we can get Mr Butler and Miss Williams to make us a little picnic basket, eat in front of the fire . . . "

He trailed off and smiled when her look shifted from 'unhappy' to 'still not happy, but curious,' and he bent forward (carefully, this time) to rest his forehead against hers.

"And christen every last inch of that lucky room regardless of whether or not there's a flat surface," he finished in a husky whisper, watching in delight (and no small amount of relief, it must be said) as Phryne smiled with absolute happiness and wrapped a hand around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair and lightly scratching because she loved to make him shiver. As their lips met in a sweet, happy kiss (and oh, yes, he definitely tasted relief from her as well), Jack smiled against her mouth and then willingly gave himself over to his lover and let her take care of him in a way he'd never allowed before – and it wasn't at all sexual, but it was intimate in a way that he'd never really experienced before, not with Rosie. It was . . . a strangely liberating experience (though not one he was eager to repeat).

And as his senses finally understood that he was home and safe, Jack had one final thought before he succumbed to a deep, healing sleep.

Their staff was going to have more paid vacations in four months than he'd had in ten years.

He loved his life.

/*/*/*/*/

Wesley was kept busy for nearly a full day after the raid, taking statements, processing arrests, and (ugh) filling out paperwork. Since Sergeants Mason and Page were unharmed apart from some mild bruising and, in Page's case, a wrenched ankle, they'd both come in and given their statements. Which was when Sheridan got his second – oh, no, it was the third, wasn't it? – shock of the day.

Both men had revealed that their actions when Hawkins shot Doolane had been instructions from Jack. His slack-jawed expression earned him two amused grins and a more detailed explanation. It seemed that Jack had decided, given his position in front of the woman, to do something stupid: risk taking a bullet to the brain in exchange for taking her down. Page had recognized – well, something, he couldn't really say _what,_ and desperately signaled Mason, who promptly shifted to put himself in his DI's peripheral vision. And God be thanked, Jack had seen and understood; hence, his tipped chin. The clenched fists and curled fingers had been part of a silent code that he'd worked out with all of his senior officers shortly after he'd been given command of City South. The only thing he hadn't known was that Will Hawkins was in position behind them all – but his sergeants had. They'd shared his plan and Hawkins had adapted marvelously.

Thus, the hit to her shoulder instead of a shot to the heart. It would be bad form to shoot your DI instead of his abductor.

For the umpteenth time on this case, Wesley found himself impressed with Jack's circle of people.

(and maybe the tiniest bit envious)

Once their statements were complete and validated, and after the two of them had also given Sheridan their sincere, grateful thanks, their fellow officers greeted them with a rousing cheer and a great deal of manly backslapping and handshakes. This quickly turned into a small party, complete with music and even that new dance that had originated in Africa – congo? tanga? Conga! That was it – as the station celebrated the safe return of their men and the arrest of their captors (and active participants in a slave ring, but in this instance, the station as a whole cared more about the former) and the four constables who'd been under what amounted to house arrest for four days could finally _leave._

Which they did at the earliest possible moment. They gave their sergeants hearty handshakes and sincere 'glad you're back, Sirs' and then they were gone. Well, Wesley couldn't fault them for that. He would have been going stir-crazy, too.

He interviewed Wendy Doolane with Will Hawkins, and learned nothing new. She was infuriatingly tight-lipped and smug (just like Nelson, Sheridan mentally fumed, and actually had, for only the fourth time in his life, the desire to strike a woman), and despite being caught quite literally red-handed, she refused to provide information or even ask for leniency. In fact, she said nothing beyond a confirmation of her name for the entire half-hour he and Hawkins tried to question her.

When they finally got tired of beating their heads against a wall, they left the gaol and headed back to City South in companionable – if frustrated – silence. Hawkins broke it about halfway there by dryly observing, "I'll have to go to confession for this, but Miss Fisher's handiwork really did look good on her."

In spite of himself, Sheridan let out a soft laugh of amusement. Doolane's cheek had formed a spectacular bruise beneath a gash that was more than an inch long and still very red and sore-looking; combine that with the swelling of her jaw and nose, and her appearance was truly frightening. During the interview itself, the woman had managed to ignore her injuries, but the constant touches and vain attempts to cover her face with her hair that they'd observed before entering the room had been a satisfying sight for both men.

"That it did," he agreed, slowing down for a stop sign.

Another mile passed in quiet camaraderie before Hawkins spoke again.

"Will we have to protect Miss Fisher?" he asked quietly, almost hesitantly.

Caught off-guard, Sheridan gave him a surprised look before turning his attention back to the road and mulling over the question.

"I shouldn't think so," he finally replied a few minutes later. "She was never a threat to Doolane's life, and given that we _all_ saw her hold a gun to Jack's head —"

"But she wasn't resisting arrest or trying to escape," Hawkins interrupted him, his voice troubled. "And – well, are we thinking this is mild because of what Inspector Robinson did to Nelson? If that hadn't happened, would we be so sanguine about this?"

Startled at the unexpected insight, Sheridan blinked and gave _that_ due consideration as well.

"I – well, I'd like to think so," he began, pulling into a parking lot that was currently empty and killing the engine. This required privacy and his full attention. "But at this point, it makes no difference. And when you look at it, all Miss Fisher did was grab her shoulder and slap her. Once. Given that we've both seen officers do a hell of a lot worse to some of their collars, it'd be hypocritical of us to judge her."

"But," Hawkins protested, his eyes darkening. "She's a civilian and – well, we've all had the warnings about vigilante justice and . . . I know Miss Fisher didn't do any permanent harm but – we're police officers. I just . . . "

Sheridan nodded his understanding and laid a supportive hand on his shoulder. "There are extenuating circumstances, Will," he said softly, meeting the young man's eyes. "So the answer to your question is: it depends on the situation. And maybe it shouldn't make a difference, but we're still human. Just because we're also police officers doesn't change that. And the two aren't always in accord."

He let a few seconds pass before adding, "Personally, I'm not sure either of us could have actually hit a woman, even a piece of work like Doolane, so when you think about it, Miss Fisher did us a favour."

A soft chuckle came from Hawkins' throat and he nodded in agreement. A contemplative silence then filled the car and Sheridan let it; they both had a few things to think about.

Maybe five minutes later, Hawkins finally spoke again.

"What about your men, Sir? Are any of them likely to give trouble? I know Collins won't and neither will Lestrade – he's my constable – and they're the only two of ours who saw what happened, but . . ."

Speechless, Sheridan could only gape as Robinson's third in command trailed off.

"Which was deliberate on my part," the man suddenly continued, oblivious to the inspector's shock. "Most of the men like Miss Fisher but the ones who don't could cause some serious problems and I wanted to avoid the possibility. That's why I had the bulk of them handling the minions and the rest of them securing the building."

Hawkins' loyalty to his inspector sent a stab of envy straight into Sheridan's heart. He hadn't realized until that moment how much he'd come to rely on the same from Greg Kingston. Or how much he hated that it was gone.

Speaking of Kingston . . .

"No," he replied firmly, refusing to take offense at the question. He knew that _something_ had happened between his men and Robinson's – no, between _Kingston _and everyone else – while he and Miss Fisher were interviewing Maria Russo, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what. "No, the only man I had there was Hopkins; the rest were either with yours, securing the ship, or searching her room, so we're fine there."

The tension drained from the other man like water from a bathtub and Sheridan smiled. "That was well considered, Sergeant," he said approvingly. "A lot of people wouldn't have thought that far ahead and I'm impressed that you did. If you ever decide to come to Inverness, give me a call."

That broke the remaining awkwardness and they both laughed when Hawkins shook his head, his eyes wide with pretend horror.

"Treason!" he cried, trying to keep a straight face. "I should have you clapped in irons."

"Hmm," Sheridan mused, looking down so the young man wouldn't see the fondness in his smile. "Well, if nothing else, it would fun to explain to your station."

Hawkins burst out laughing again and sagged back in his seat, covering his face with his hands and shaking his head. Sheridan had a little more control over himself, so he was able keep his reaction limited to a smile. After about half a minute, he started the car and headed for the station again.

Well, as emergency rescue trips went, this one rather took the cake. They'd got their man – woman – scum of the earth, her minions, and their abducted men. No one had been (seriously) hurt, and he'd finally worked out his problem with Kingston. All in all, a successful operation.

But he was _never_ complaining about the tedium of paperwork again. Ever. He didn't like Melbourne nearly enough to risk this happening again.

/*/*/*/*/

Will Hawkins couldn't help but gawk at Miss Fisher's home. The exterior was normal enough, but the inside . . . it was like walking into an amalgamation of world cultures and it was _wonderful_. He and Inspector Sheridan had decided en route to come here and get Inspector Robinson's statement before heading back to the station, and were now seated in the front parlour, drinking sinfully good coffee (Sheridan) and not quite-as-good tea (Will; Dot was out with Hugh Collins (who, at Sheridan's strong insistence, had finished his report and then left for the day, since his part in this operation had been essential, but small)), and waiting for the inspector to join them.

He came downstairs about fifteen minutes after their arrival and both men were pleased to see him moving fairly easily, albeit still a little cautiously. He accepted their handshakes and greetings, then settled himself on the chaise with a slight wince, accepted the tea Mr Butler offered him, and promptly asked about the case. Will was a bit surprised to find himself exchanging a look of fond exasperation with Sheridan, but by mutual consent, they indulged him; it wasn't like he wouldn't find out anyway and they had the most current information.

Once they'd brought him up to speed on their side, Sheridan produced a pencil and notebook, wordlessly asking if Jack was ready to give his statement. Hawkins followed suit, only to be blindsided by Jack's refusal.

"Not yet," he told them, his lips quirking in amusement. "Phryne's out, finishing up a case she was working earlier this week, and she asked to be here when I give my statement. It shouldn't be too much longer."

Sheridan started to object, but visibly rethought it and instead nodded, draining his coffee in one long gulp. Mr Butler appeared from nowhere and refilled the cup, then topped off Will's tea before handing Jack a small plate of crackers. Will just blinked, trying to figure out where he'd come from, and suddenly recalled what Miss Fisher had told him when she was asking for that interview: _" . . . any _good_ domestic learns to blend in to their surroundings. You could stand in my parlour for an hour and never see my butler if he doesn't wish it."_

Well, what do you know? It was true. And Will was now officially envious.

As the inspectors were discussing the upcoming trials of Wayne Nelson and his cronies, and how this new bust would change things, Will let his attention drift a bit and looked a little more closely at the artwork adorning the walls. Miss Fisher's tastes were wide and varied, but she had a good eye and the juxtaposition of styles somehow managed to complement each other. It was absolutely fascinating and awakened again some of that desire to travel, to see all those exotic sights, that most people experienced at least once.

He had been scanning the room, drinking in the décor, when his eyes landed on an astonishingly detailed picture of a nude woman stretched out on dark sheets. He was just starting to feel surprised that Miss Fisher would have such a painting when _something_ registered in his mind. With shocked, horrified amazement, Will felt himself blush tomato red at the realization that the woman in the painting was _her._ Oh, dear God. He was staring at a nude portrait of his boss' wife. Partner.

On the heels of the horrified shock came panic. He was ogling a picture of a nude Phryne Fisher _in front of her husband._

_**His boss.**_

At the reminder, he blanched and then snuck a guilty look at Inspector Robinson, praying that he wasn't about to die. To his eternal shock, the man was grinning at him, his eyes lit with amusement. Sheridan gave them both puzzled looks before following Will's inadvertent glance back to the painting in question. A faint blush tinted his cheeks as he nodded his understanding and the inspector's grin widened.

"She is beautiful," he said conversationally, only to burst out laughing when both of his guests nodded emphatically and then deliberately turned away from the picture in question.

"It's fine, gentlemen," he assured them with an easy, sincere smile. "If she didn't want people to see it, she wouldn't have hung it up."

"See what?" came the voice of the woman herself as she swept into the room, her purple dress swirling around her calves as she greeted Will with a smile, Inspector Sheridan with a kiss on the cheek, and Inspector Robinson with a quick brush of her lips across his.

"Your last foray into being an artist's model," her inspector replied as he shifted over to let her sit beside him.

"Oh!" she said in realization as she sat down, giving the painting in question a quick glance before sending him a smouldering look that was returned with interest.

Will did not want to know.

Neither did Inspector Sheridan.

"Did you get your case wrapped up, Miss Fisher?" he asked, sitting back down and taking another sip of his coffee. Will followed suit, though he was no longer thirsty, and after setting his tea aside, pulled out his notebook and pencil.

"I did," she replied with a smile, taking Inspector Robinson's hand in hers and twining their fingers.

"I'm glad to hear it," Sheridan said with a matching smile. As if that were a cue, the atmosphere of the room changed and everyone sat up a little straighter in response to the sudden formal feel of things. As he fished out his own pen and pad, Sheridan looked at Inspector Robinson and said, "It's best to start from the beginning, I think." He paused and gave a faint smile. "Like you don't know the drill," he added drily. Everyone else smiled a bit at that, and then the inspector looked at Miss Fisher. He drew strength from whatever he saw there, took a deep breath, and turned back to his sergeant and his Inverness counterpart.

And began.

They all listened with eager fascination, anger, and horror as his tale emerged. The abduction itself pulled an angry hiss from Miss Fisher and stoic nods (with slightly admiring looks) from the two policemen; his 'conversation' with Doolane elicited horrified anger from all of them, as well as the first group shudder Will had ever participated in; his confirmation of being treated – not 'well,' but not badly, either, drew relieved sighs. His description of their escape was, by turns, amusing and nerve-wracking.

His account of the standoff was . . . the reaction could best be described as 'explosive.'

The recapture itself was really rather boring, seeing as it consisted of 'we got out of the building and then she came out from behind us and held a gun to my head.'

His actions to stop her – under no circumstances could 'boring' be an accurate descriptor.

And he knew it.

Swallowing hard, he told them in a surprisingly steady voice about his realization that Doolane was going to kill him regardless. His knowledge that their position gave her near-total protection from the front and sides, so the odds were good that she'd get away with it – and his subsequent decision to stop her permanently, no matter the cost. The subtle movement that had reminded him of Mason and Page's presence, and the sudden memory of setting up the system of hand signals for this very reason. The fear at taking the only chance he – they – would get, and knowing that even with help, he might not live through it. The deafening roar of a gun going off, and the pain as he'd hit her with every ounce of strength he could muster, and the jarring impact of crashing down on the cold, unforgiving concrete.

Opening his eyes to see Miss Fisher, safe and unharmed, and leaning over him.

When he'd finished his tale, you could have heard a pin drop. No one knew quite what to say, though judging by the look on Miss Fisher's face, that state of affairs wouldn't last long.

And Will did _not_ want to be present when it happened.

Once again, Sheridan agreed with him, because he cleared his throat and managed a smile.

"Remarkable," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "And – terrifying. If you were one of mine, Jack, I'd give you a medal for bravery and a month's suspension for stupidity."

Will managed, with an effort, to hold back his snort. Miss Fisher didn't bother trying, and Inspector Robinson turned his penetrating stare away from his counterpart to give her a look that was both resigned and understanding as he pulled her a little closer to his side. It was clear that the presence of Will and Sheridan was rapidly becoming intrusive – and Will abruptly stood up. "I think that's everything," he announced, mentally wincing at how loud his voice sounded even as he marveled at his audacity. But it did the trick, because everyone else rose as well, and Sheridan gave him a subtle nod of approval before turning back to Inspector Robinson and holding out a hand.

"Unless something blows up in the next day or so, we'll be heading back to Inverness tomorrow, so I probably won't see you again until the trial starts," he said as he accepted an easy, respectful handshake. After a brief pause, he continued with, "And I hope you understand, Jack, that I pray to God I don't see you again until that day."

Will's DI smiled. "I understand completely, Wesley. So you won't be offended that I echo the sentiment."

Will and Miss Fisher exchanged a confused look when the pair shared a soft laugh and commiserating smiles but said nothing when the two did the 'manly handshake' thing again before Sheridan summoned Will with a glance and stepped back, fixing Inspector Robinson with a stern look.

"In all seriousness, Jack, are you going to be all right?" he asked quietly, holding his gaze with effortless ease and complete sincerity.

The inspector tilted his chin in surprise before his eyes filled with gratitude.

"I am," he replied, his voice confident and his manner sure. "I promise." He flicked a quick glance to Miss Fisher and added, "I don't dare do otherwise."

"No," Miss Fisher agreed with a slightly dangerous smile. "You don't."

And that was their cue. Will looked at his DI and said, "I'm glad you're back, Sir."

The offer of a handshake was normal, but the warm smile that accompanied it was a touch surprising. Then again, the inspector had been a little more – approachable? – since Inverness, and it was a change his men liked. They would always have thrown themselves between him and danger, but this warmer personality had elicited a loyalty that would have stunned Jack, had he known.

It was a large part of why the group of City South men had been perfectly ready to shoot Wendy Doolane, given the opportunity, and had no qualms about it.

Having had as much manly emotion as they could all stand, Will and Sheridan turned their attention to Miss Fisher. She sent them both off with warm smiles (and a slight blush in Will's case, because bowing to her was apparently something he did now), a hug for the Inverness inspector, and her deepest, most sincere thanks.

Once they'd left the house and took a minute to simply breathe in the cool, crisp air, Will looked at Sheridan and said, with utter seriousness, "How many men has that woman turned into monks because they know they'll never find anyone else like her?"

Sheridan blinked at this, then grinned and shook his head.

"Lord only knows," he replied, starting for the car. "But I bet you not one of them regretted it."

As that was a sucker's bet, Will wisely declined.

The trip back to the station was quiet – Will was lost in his thoughts and Inspector Sheridan wasn't a talkative man on a normal day – but easy, and Will realized with a start that for now, everything was done. All the arrests had been made, all of their missing men had been safely recovered, everyone's statements had been taken, and except for Sheridan's final report, there was nothing else for them to do until the trial preparations started.

The sudden release of tension nearly made him groan in relief. He was actually going to get to go home tonight. He would get to eat something he'd picked out, and wear casual clothes. He could shower. And forget sleeping in a bed – he was going to get to _sleep_.

"Good feeling, isn't it?" came the understanding question. He shifted in his seat until he was partially facing Inspector Sheridan and nodded, still feeling a touch light-headed (his muscles were unknotting at an astonishing rate).

"Best feeling in the world," he replied, finally letting his own happiness out.

Sheridan gave an odd little half-smile.

"Yes, it is," he agreed before fixing Will with a serious look. "Remember it, Sergeant Hawkins," he continued, surprising Will with the abrupt formality. "The day closing a case like this one _doesn't_ feel like a triumph, it's time to get out."

Astonished, Will could only blink. There was a story there, he knew, and it was definitely sound advice, but that had been strangely personal. After a few seconds, though, he decided to simply take the advice and not dwell on the rest. Sometimes, it was better to just go with it.

"I'll remember, Sir," he replied respectfully, relaxing back in his seat. "And I – I need to thank you, Inspector."

Sheridan flicked him a quick glance before returning his attention to the road. "For what?" he asked, swerving to avoid hitting a dog with the ease of long practice.

"For everything," Will replied, bemused. Did he really not know?

Well, no, of course he didn't. For all their major differences, Sheridan and Inspector Robinson had quite a bit in common, and that humbleness of personality was a trait they shared.

"'Everything,' Sergeant?" was the dry rejoinder. Will smiled. His loyalty would always belong to Inspector Robinson, but if Sheridan ever needed him, he would do his damnedest to help.

"Well, I can hardly thank you for 'something,'" Will riposted, beginning to enjoy this. "That would be both rude and inaccurate."

With a deep laugh, Sheridan reached out and clapped Will's shoulder. "You are very welcome, Hawkins," he said, understanding colouring every syllable. "But like I told Jack, please don't call me again unless the world is ending."

Given everything that had happened both times they'd met, that was perfectly understandable. And fair.

"You have my word, Inspector," he promised, putting his hand to his heart and forcing his face into a serious expression. "But I reserve the right to call you first in the event of a pending apocalypse."

Without missing a beat, Sheridan returned, "Deal."

Their arrival at the station punctuated this statement and brought an end to the conversation, and Will smiled. He loved his job and thrived on the puzzles and the danger, even despite cases like this, something that threatened to steal your soul and laugh while it fed you to the devil – or his mistress.

And every life he saved, every person he helped, every situation he had a hand in turning around – it made the hurts, the losses, and the pain worth it. It sounded cliché, maybe, but for Will it was true. He wasn't anyone's guardian angel – it wasn't his style – but he _was_ born and bred to serve, to protect, and he would always put himself between innocents and the danger that courted them.

He'd learned that from Inspector Robinson, and this case had only reinforced that.

'Uphold the Right.'

It was their motto, but it was also the only siren whose call he could not – would not – refuse.

And he would have it no other way.

/*/*/*/*/


	7. Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels

A/N: Well, we're at the end. It's been a fun ride, and I want to thank everyone who has read, favorited, followed, and reviewed. You guy are awesome! Hope you enjoy this last chapter and thanks again!

/*/*/*/*/

After Sheridan and Hawkins had gone, there was a fraught, tense silence. Jack absently noted that Mr Butler – yet again showing his psychic intuition – paused at the threshold of the parlour but didn't come in. A minute or two after that, the back door opened and closed.

Which left Jack and Phryne the only people in the house.

Well. At least there wouldn't be any witnesses to his death.

They stayed where they were, standing side-by-side in front of the chaise, with a gulf the size of an impossible choice – his only choice – between them. Jack honestly didn't know what to say, because his initial reasoning had been sound, but it would also have ended with his death. He understood full well that Phryne was not happy with him, but given his options at the time, there had literally been nothing else he could do.

One life, no matter how precious it was to someone, would _never_ outweigh all of the other lives that hung in the balance.

Jack hadn't wanted to die. But when you were backed into a corner, sometimes you only had one option. And that option was never a good one. In this case, had he been able to get away (which was not a guarantee; hell, it wasn't even likely), it would have been at the price of letting Doolane go as well. And that outcome was one he'd refused to countenance. So as much as Jack loved Phryne and wanted to build a life with her, he wouldn't have been able to live with himself had he chosen his life at the expense of every person Doolane would have destroyed from that moment forward.

And eventually, Phryne would have begun to despise him, too.

All of this was going through her head as well, he knew, and so he said nothing, because there was no way to make it better, or go back in time. All they could do was live with things as they were now, and appreciate life a little bit more.

"I desperately want to yell at you," Phryne abruptly announced, her voice shockingly loud in the tense silence. He managed to hold back his flinch, but she felt it anyway and slowly turned to look at him. Swallowing, Jack forced a calm he didn't feel and met her gaze.

"Desperately," she repeated, her voice cracking just a little. "But I saw where you were, and as much as I hate to admit it" (he had to mentally smile at this; there was little Phryne hated more than being forced to do something) "there was nothing else to try. It wasn't like you could let her go."

Though she was acknowledging his point, Jack wasn't foolish enough to say anything. He heard the brittle control in her voice, and knew he needed to tread carefully. Just because she knew he'd been right didn't mean she was ready to accept it.

He did risk a touch, though, and lightly curled his fingers around hers. She didn't respond to his gentle squeeze, but neither did she pull away. He was making progress.

After an eternity of an uneasy, unhappy, heavy silence, Phryne suddenly sighed and turned to fully face him, pressing herself against his chest and tucking her head beneath his chin. Bemused, Jack blinked several times before he got with the program and wrapped his arms around her. They stood in a warm embrace for several minutes, broken only by the sound of their breathing, before she finally whispered, "So many people have left me, Jack. My parents, Janey, _René. Lydia. Others. One way or another, they all go."_

_He said nothing; his throat was too tight to allow his voice to work, and in truth, what could he say?_

_"And I'm a survivor," she continued quietly, "but there comes a point at which survival is not all that appealing."_

_It was a sentiment that Jack understood all too well, and he hated that this wasn't something he could fix. There were some dragons that no one could slay._

_She sighed heavily before saying, "This case – your abduction – no, that's not right. Your ____absence__ has made me realize that living without you would not be living at all. And I have no interest in simply surviving, Jack. None."_

_Oh, yes. He and Phryne were of one accord in this. One would think that would make things easier._

_"So while I understand what you did and why, and would have supported your decision should the worse have happened," she began, startling him a little (and for more than one reason). "I would much prefer not being put in that position again. I don't want to wrap you in cotton wool," she added a touch wryly, with a rueful twist to her lips, though it could not be called a smile by any definition. "Nor do I want you to stop being a policeman."_

_That was a thought that had never once crossed his mind._

_"But I don't think you quite understand what you mean to me," she whispered, her hair tickling his neck as she pulled back to meet his eyes. "This isn't a guilt trip, Jack, and I don't – I'm not trying to use your feelings as leverage. I just want . . . I'm not Rosie and I don't react to things the way she does. I understand that our lives demand hard choices, and when you have to make one, I will support you. Because at the end of the day, you are Detective Inspector Jack Robinson, and that's who I fell in love with. The man who was ready to kill someone who hurt me, but stopped because his honour would not permit the harm it would cause to innocent bystanders, physical or not. The man who refused to dance with me at my birthday party because we were both so worked up that it would ended in a passionate bout of sex that neither of us was ready for. The man who loves me enough to let me go, if it was truly what I wanted. So don't feel that you have to hide yourself away, Jack. I know who you are, and I understand it, and I will ____always__ stand beside you. "_

_The warmth that suffused him was so overwhelmingly glorious that he nearly fell to his knees. Despite their partnership and all the crimes they'd solved since that first meeting so long ago, despite even his heartfelt plea for her to be more careful with her life, if only for his sake . . . until this moment, Jack hadn't truly let himself believe that his feelings were wholly reciprocated._

_He'd never been ambitious enough for Rosie, and because of that, she'd had no interest in his work as first a sergeant, then an inspector. Likewise, her support also wasn't something he'd received. In the very early days of their marriage, he'd tried to talk about his job and his days, but after the first few times, Rosie had simply changed the subject when he brought it up. She'd made it perfectly clear that she didn't really care about his decisions, unless they led to Deputy Commissioner and above, and anything that didn't serve that goal would have neither her support nor her approval._

_Phryne, on the other hand, wanted to know every dirty detail of the cases he worked without her and – now that he was thinking about it – the only times she'd ever spoken against a decision he'd made was when she'd heard the evidence and could logically explain to him why she thought he should have done otherwise._

_And when he could refute her reasoning with his own (which happened a fair bit of the time), she would huff in irritation (or sulk, though that was rare) and concede the point. So it shouldn't have surprised him that she understood and agreed (reluctantly, yes) with his decision to die in order to stop this damned slave ring once and for all, even though she hated it with every fiber of her being._

_More importantly, she wouldn't hold it against him._

_Jack desperately wanted to lay her down and make love to her until neither of them could move, but he was still sore and tired, and between giving his statement and having this conversation, he was swaying on his feet. Instead, he tilted her chin up with a gentle finger and claimed her mouth with his, trying to convey his love, his respect, his admiration, every feeling he had for her, with his lips, since there was no way to express them verbally._

_Her hands clenched in his shirt as she returned his kiss with interest, curling a leg around his hip and doing her damnedest to climb him like a tree. Regretting again that he wasn't fully healed from his abduction, Jack gentled the kiss and cradled her cheeks with loving hands, smiling when he felt her pout and drop back down to stand on both feet._

_They reluctantly drew apart, breathing heavily. Feeling a little lighter with this new understanding, Jack smiled and brushed his lips over her forehead before taking her hand and coaxing her first to the stairs and then to their bedroom. She said nothing the entire time, which would have worried him under other circumstances, but given how off-balance he currently was, he felt safe in assuming that she was thinking everything over._

_With that in mind, he simply stripped down to his boxers and helped Phryne get out of her dress and down to her underthings before settling her in bed. After he'd used the toilet, he eased in next to her and smiled when she promptly shifted them both around until he was lying mostly on his back and she was cuddled against his chest with his arms wrapped around her. Neither of them had spoken, still, and Jack was slowly drifting off when her hand suddenly flexed, her fingers beating a tattoo on his chest._

"She thought no one cared about you," Phryne whispered against his heart.

"She was wrong," he whispered back, tenderly carding his fingers through her tangled hair and tightening his other arm across her back. "And I knew you'd come."

She actually sniffled, which made alarm spike through him, before she sat up, making sure to avoid jostling the bandaged scrape covering a large portion of his upper left arm. His other hand she captured in hers, bringing it to her lips so she could kiss his fingers before nuzzling tenderly into his palm.

They stayed that way for several minutes before she stirred and straightened, lacing their fingers together as she fixed him with a serious look. Then she knocked the ground from beneath his feet.

"If we place the notice tomorrow, we can wed in a month," she announced calmly, her eyes never wavering from his – and her expression never changing from solemn resolve.

Jack's heart broke.

"No," he said hoarsely, mentally cringing when her face crumpled. With a muttered oath, he struggled to sit up (and if she took the curse as a result of his movement, well . . . good).

"Don't be daft, woman," he added affectionately, finally getting to an upright position and taking a minute to just breathe. His injuries weren't serious, but his body collectively felt like he'd been beaten with a bat (which was an improvement over being hit by a lorry, for a given value of 'improvement').

_That_ earned him a narrow-eyed look, which only made him grin; it was precisely the reaction he'd wanted.

"No," he repeated tenderly, his brief spurt of humour fading as he cradled her face in his hands and rested his forehead against hers.

"You don't want to marry me?" she asked in disbelief, her breath brushing across his lips and igniting a powerful desire to kiss her. It was a desire he had a hard time fighting on a normal day and after everything that had happened, never mind all the things they'd talked about and worked through?

Well.

They were both breathless when he eased back and Phryne's eyes were glazed. He was able to keep the smug grin from actually crossing his lips, but the corners of his mouth did twitch in amusement. Luckily, she didn't notice, though it only took a few blinks for her to (mostly) clear away the fog of desire. But the uncertain vulnerability he saw behind the lust tugged at his heart and he caressed her cheek with a thumb as he thought about what to say.

"I would love to marry you," he finally told her in a hushed voice, unwilling to break the fragile atmosphere. "But not because you're afraid of what might happen if we don't. I will not put my ring on your finger unless _you_ want it. Not out of fear, or because you think it's what I want, or because someone said something obnoxious. I am yours willingly, in trust and in word and in promise, so if you, the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, don't want to marry me of your own volition, because it's _your_ choice . . . I could never want that. Ever."

Suddenly, they were the only two people on earth while he stared deeply in her eyes, gold sparks glinting in the vibrant green, holding his breath as he waited for her response.

When it came, he had to laugh.

And then he was too busy kissing her back and helping her undress them both (pain? What pain?) to say anything but "I love you" as she eased him down to the mattress and covered him like a living blanket of love.

And lust. Couldn't forget that.

God, he really was the luckiest bastard in the world.

/*/*/*/*/

_38 days later_

Phryne leaned back against the brilliant maroon of her beloved Hispano-Suiza and pulled her sunglasses down with one hand, the better to appreciate the rather breathtaking view in front of her.

Oblivious to her approving gaze, Jack and Hugh were wrestling a dark grey lounge chair through his front door, their muscles straining against the thin material of their shirts. At an angle to her, the sight of Bert and Cec loading the last of Jack's book collection (all seven boxes of it) also had her tilting her head so as to get a better look. On her left, Dot was avidly watching her boyfriend (and blushing when she forgot herself and looked at Jack); to her right, Jane (who had only recently returned from a two-month trip around Australia) couldn't decide whether to smile in delight or blush in embarrassment as she watched Cec and Bert haul boxes.

(Phryne sympathized. She loved both men like brothers, but damned if they weren't positively beautiful sometimes.)

The remainder of Jack's clothes had already been loaded into the Suiza and all that remained now (well, once the books and chair were loaded) was his truly personal effects: his grandmother's clock, his great-uncle's shaving kit, his certificate from the Academy . . . small things, but so important. Phryne was a bit envious of him, because she had very little from her own or her family's past, though in truth, there was little she would have wanted.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Jane grabbing a thermos Mr Butler had filled with water and trotting over to Jack, who had apparently given up fighting with his chair – which didn't seem to want to leave the flat – and dropped it in disgust, half out of the apartment. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and a smile lit his face when Jane bounced up to him and offered the water. He caught the girl around her shoulders and pulled her to his side as he drank, and Phryne's heart nearly burst from happiness at the sight.

Jane had always liked Jack, even before he and Phryne had come to their collective senses, but his refusal to move all the way in had convinced her that he didn't want to be a full-time parent (and Phryne hated so much that she understood it; her own childhood and adolescence had not encouraged self-esteem, and given that Jane's mother was mentally ill and her father wasn't in the picture at all, how much worse would her issues be?). Her leaving on her tour had only made things worse, because while Jane adored Jack – and _vice versa_ – neither of them had been comfortable expressing that and so there had been a certain level of awkwardness between the two of them. This was not helped at all when she returned and found that the living arrangements still hadn't changed.

Phryne couldn't help the smile when she recalled the resulting conversation. Jane had initially been looking for her, but she'd run into Jack first and – so she said – he'd been so adorably nervous that the dam had broken. Jane had, quite simply, unloaded her fears on him – which had horrified him once he'd translated her words from 'panicked adolescent' to English and realized what she was actually telling him – and then collapsed in his startled arms, begging him to stay, and if she was the problem, then she would go, Ruth's grandmother would take her in.

That had been too much for Phryne, who'd been an unseen observer, but before she could take more than two steps, Jack had closed his gaping mouth, gathered Jane more securely in his arms, and sat them both down right there in the middle of the hall. And with the tender care of an older brother, he let her cry on him a little longer, and then he soothed her tears and told her – straight up, with no hesitation and no sugar-coating, which just made both women love him more – that not only did he want to be her father – or her brother, if she preferred – if she'd allow it, but he was making plans to move in as they spoke.

Jane had been wary at first, but Jack had never lied to her, and he'd never treated her like a child. Once she remembered that, she'd thrown herself into his arms and sent them both toppling to the floor, Jack chuckling and Jane ecstatically laughing. Knowing things were fine now – at least on that end – Phryne had eased back and walked away, thrilled beyond reason that her daughter and her partner had come to an understanding.

Now, watching the results made her smile widen until it hurt. Jack wasn't a physically demonstrative man in public, but Jane had a free pass. A sudden "Oi!" had them all looking up in surprise, and then Jane's face split in a huge grin and she kissed Jack's cheek before bounding over to the taxi and laughing when Cec picked her up and swung her around. Bert was waiting when he set her down and Phryne had to turn away to hide her delight when the pair gave Jack matching smug smiles, only to lose the battle when her eyes met Dot's and they burst out laughing.

Her boys had come to terms with her and Jack's relationship, though Bert claimed that living in the same house as a copper was giving him grey hair. Cec had welcomed Jack cordially enough and was respectful, but both men kept their distance. Phryne took a quick moment to be thankful that Jack understood (well, actually, it was more 'Jack felt the same way') and was also not the type to take offense at the drop of a hat. He knew who they were, and while he would never agree with it, he also wouldn't hold it against them or try to change their minds.

Hugh suddenly tossed the now-empty thermos back to Dot (who caught it, to her obvious astonishment) and nodded to his inspector. They grabbed the chair and lifted it back up, this time tilting it to a truly unbelievable angle in an effort to get it through the door. Phryne couldn't help but giggle at the sight, though when it worked, she got two self-satisfied smiles. Now outright laughing, she waved her hand in surrender and leaned back again, her gaze going to the open door of the cleaned-out flat.

"Are you truly happy, Miss?" Dot suddenly asked, startling her.

A playful retort was on her lips until she turned and actually saw her companion's expression. Sobering, she took the young woman's hands in hers and squeezed tightly.

"I am so far beyond happy, Dot, there's not a word for it," she said, meaning it with every fiber of her being. "I mean, yes, we'll still bicker about ridiculous things and squabble about my appearance at his crime scenes, and doubtless there will be thinly-disguised barbs at how much time we both spend at our respective choice of clubs, fighting or dancing, though personally I can't see much of a difference, and if he ever tries to teach me how to play rummy – or poker, for that matter – again, I'll set fire to the deck that very instant, but at the end of every day, Dot . . . "

She trailed off for a moment, not seeing the enraptured look on her companion's face, and simply basked in this new, much-cherished understanding of what her – _their _– lives would entail now.

"At the end of the day, no matter what time that might be, we'll always come home to each other," she finished softly, taking in Dot's happy face for a moment before giving her lover a brilliant smile as he and Hugh set the chair down by the taxi. He wiped his forehead with a no-longer-white handkerchief and came to her, ignoring her weak protest at his sweaty state when he pulled her against his chest for a quick hug and a soft, sweet kiss.

Her eyebrows arched in question when he winked at her, but she nearly choked laughing when he turned to Dot and gathered her close for a short hug as well, and then dropped a loud kiss on one bright pink cheek.

"I'll thank you not to go after my girl, Inspector!" Hugh called, trotting over and pulling Dot to his side, giving the girl in question a light kiss before scowling at his DI. Unintimidated, Jack merely gazed back, his face expressionless, and Phryne almost lost her last vestige of control.

And then Dot – shy, unassuming Dot – pulled free of her boyfriend, put her arm through Jack's, and said, with an apologetic shrug and an angelic expression, "I'm sorry, Hugh, but he _is_ an inspector."

Dumbfounded, everyone gawked at her and she defiantly met their stares, though her cheeks did go from blushing pink to bright red.

Bert fell against the taxi, howling with laughter and clutching his stomach, which set the rest of them off. Hugh was laughing the loudest as he reclaimed Dot from his DI's embrace and they brushed noses in an adorably sweet way. Deprived of his innocent bystander, Jack came up behind Phryne and wrapped himself around her, one arm crossed over her stomach and the other snug across her collarbone. Phryne sighed in utter contentment and melted back against him, covering his hands with hers and giggling softly as she watched Jane and Dot gang up to tease Hugh.

"So do you intend to spend much time dancing in jazz clubs and making men want you?" he asked in a husky voice, dropping his head so he could nuzzle her neck and enjoy the scent of her light summer perfume.

"Well, of course," Phryne replied archly, pressing a little closer to him. "And then I'll come home to the only man who gets to have me. Anticipation enhances the experience, after all."

He didn't disagree, but the soft huff in her ear made her grin.

"And if that man wanted to come with you?" he suddenly asked, surprising her; by his own admission (and confirmed by a few of his men), Jack didn't dance. He was good at it, but it was a skill he seldom utilized.

If he was serious, this could be fun.

"Well, then, we'll have to go shopping," she purred, smiling at his involuntary whimper. "I couldn't possibly go out without being colour-coordinated."

His snort actually ruffled her hair and she chuckled, turning her head to claim his lips in another soft kiss (and if she stopped the grumbling before it started, well. Happy coincidence, that was.).

"I can live with that," he answered when they pulled back, his gaze following hers to the nearly-empty flat as he gave a sigh that was a combination of weariness and satisfaction, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Let's get this finished, then. I'm hot and sweaty and I want to go home – where you and I will see just how long it takes us to get clean and presentable again."

Delighted by his new playfulness, Phryne twisted in his hold and twined her arms around his neck. She pulled him into another kiss, this one deep and passionate, and thrilled at the uninhibited response he gave her. _This_ was the man he'd been so afraid he'd never be again, and the man he'd thought no one wanted. Phryne's unequivocal acceptance – and Dot's, Jane's, and Mr Butler's – had taken him utterly aback at first, but when he'd received nothing but encouragement for simply being himself (and to his astonishment, things like being sullen or irritable had garnered nothing more than a little less company until the mood had passed; in fact, no one said anything about his moods unless he was sunk into a bad one for more than two days. This was something else he'd never really gotten from Rosie and he relished the novelty.), he'd finally begun to relax some of his barriers and remember what it was like to have fun and enjoy life.

"Lead on, Inspector Robinson," she purred, nipping his bottom lip before pulling away from his embrace. She'd only taken a few steps toward the building when he caught her hand and shook his head, gently pushing her back to Dot's side. Confused, she tilted her head and pursed her lips.

"Jack?"

He looked resolute, but a blush she could only identify as 'embarrassed' tinted his cheeks.

"I – this is my past," he began haltingly, his blush deepening as he looked away for several seconds, only to sigh and scrub a hand through his already-tousled hair before meeting her eyes again. "I'm not ashamed of it, and I know you're going to see it when we get home and I'll happily tell you anything you want to know," he said softly, tension making him stand a little straighter.

Puzzled, she nodded and waited (im)patiently for him to continue.

"I just . . . I know it's odd, and I don't know why but – I need to say 'goodbye' and I need to do it alone. I, I don't —"

He stuttered to a stop, looking absolutely miserable, but he'd said enough that Phryne understood. Not long after she'd bought her home and moved in, she'd returned to Collingwood and the house she'd grown up in. It had been occupied and there had been nothing she wanted to get, no mementos, but the very act of voluntarily returning to the place that had caused her so much misery and yet still had such a strong hold on her, and then leaving, knowing that she never had to step foot there again, had been as liberating as she imagined being released from prison must be.

And she had gone alone, because not even Mac would have understood the chains she was casting off, and why that last step had to be taken.

So with a tender, understanding smile, Phryne went to Jack and took one of his hands, putting a gentle finger over his lips and quirking her mouth at the puzzled furrow in his brow.

"Go," she whispered, silently laughing a little at the gratitude that filled his eyes and the surprise that crossed his face, even though it also made her want to cry.

"Say goodbye and take that last step. And it's alright if it's not easy, or fast," she continued, her hand now cupping his jaw. "Do what you need to do, and know that I'll be waiting."

He was silent for a long moment and then he yanked her to him, hugging her tightly while a storm of fierce, passionate words rained into her hair. The only things she really caught were 'love you,' 'don't deserve,' and 'mine,' and as they were all sentiments she wholeheartedly returned, she just tightened her embrace and smiled into his chest.

(inwardly, Phryne marveled that she not only understood Jack's emotions, but agreed with him; a year ago, she would have sneered at the perceived weakness (and ignored the pang of longing))

Not wanting to make things harder for him, she reluctantly pushed out of his arms and stepped back, letting her lips curve just a little before she turned and made her way back to Dot. Behind her, he was still for a few seconds, but she eventually heard his fading footsteps as he went to do battle with his past, and try to reconcile it with his future. And while she was a little hurt that he didn't want her with him, it was tempered by her knowledge of what he was facing.

Dot gave her a curious look and Phryne mentally shook her head, sending her companion a bright smile and calling, "All right, Dot! Let's get these things loaded up and ready; I'm sure we'd all like to get home before supper."

This sparked an immediate flurry of movement and Phryne was able to forget her worry for Jack as she helped haul, stack, _re-stack_, and load his assortment of odds, ends, bits, bobs, and the general detritus of life that most people took with them from one home to another. After everything was packed in one of the two motorcars, she sent Bert and Cec off with Jane and Hugh; they would get the bulk of things unloaded and put in a room that wasn't being used, and she and Jack could unpack and slot his things in with hers at their leisure.

It was something she was looking forward to with great anticipation. Turning a house into her home was one of the best experiences she'd ever had, and Phryne couldn't wait to share the experience with her partner. They had sacrificed so much for this, gone through trials, ordeals, and the occasional wall of fire to get to this moment, and now that it was upon them, Phryne was a little surprised to find that she felt nothing other than excitement and a rapidly building anticipation.

Because now that she'd thought about it, her home would finally be complete: a mate, a daughter, a sister, two brothers, and a father-figure. No mother but . . . well, one couldn't have everything. Besides, what she had was perfect and Phryne wouldn't trade the members of her chosen family for anything on this earth. She was theirs and they were hers and nothing would ever change that.

No, she thought with a small, private smile. Her life was as close to perfect as it could get (which was a good thing; perfection would be both cloying and stifling, and would quickly become boring).

"You're smiling again, Miss," Dot observed, pulling her out of her thoughts. Then the words registered and she quirked an eyebrow at her companion.

"Oh?" she asked curiously. "Is that something I've neglected to do recently?"

Dot blushed and looked down for a moment, biting her lip. But then she looked up, her eyes gleaming with happiness – and mischief.

"Not at all, Miss," she replied pertly, her own lips curving with amusement. "It's just – you look rather like you've discovered the secret to life."

Phryne blinked. Well, that was unexpected, although the girl wasn't wrong.

"I have, Dot," she answered with a smile of her own, this one knowing. "The secret to life is family."

Dot huffed out a laugh at this and came to her mistress, wrapping her in a happy hug.

"All of our family," she agreed, pulling back to meet Phryne's eyes before flicking a look behind her. "The one we're born with and the one we choose." She paused for a moment and then stepped back after one last squeeze. "And I'm so glad we found each other, Miss," she said in a rush.

"Oh, Dot," Phryne murmured, pulling her companion back to her side and locking eyes with her. "You're like a sister to me; didn't you know?" she said quietly, tenderly. Wonder filled Dot's face, but only for a moment, and then joy took it over. She said nothing, though; she merely hugged Phryne again and then pulled away, going to the car and carefully climbing in the backseat, moving and rearranging Jack's clothes until it looked like she was sitting on (in?) a cloth throne.

A smile pulled at Phryne's lips at the sight, and strong arms wrapping around her waist made it widen.

"That's one of the things I love most about you," Jack murmured in her ear before nuzzling her neck. "The way you take care of people, and watch over them."

"Like you?" she said in reply, relaxing against his chest.

"Yes," he agreed. "And Miss Williams, and Jane, Mr Butler, even those two Red-Raggers. It doesn't matter what we've done or where we're from; you love us anyway."

Something in his voice stopped her from making a light-hearted remark. Instead, she held still and considered his words, grateful when she was able to think of a reply.

"Why should where you're from be an issue?" she asked matter-of-factly, playing with his fingers. "And as long as you haven't committed a truly heinous crime, what you've done makes no difference, either, other than help create who you are now. I'd never hold that against anyone."

"I know," Jack said, his voice a honey-drenched tenor that warmed her from the inside out. "And you have no idea how much we love you for it."

She felt her smile break free as she turned to face him, letting her hands rest lightly on his shoulders while his fell to her hips.

"I could argue that," she started, her smile widening to a smirk when she saw him bite back his first response (she refused to feel guilty for enjoying a good argument). "But personally, I'd much rather go home, eat whatever marvelous supper Mr Butler's prepared, and scandalize our household in as many ways as we can manage after we go to bed."

His breath caught at that and his eyes slowly heated to the brilliant amber that always meant he wanted her more than he wanted to breathe. But mixed in with the desire burned a love that was so deep, it scared her sometimes, because she knew he saw the same in her. Mostly, though, she reveled in it. Jack Robinson loved her, Phryne Fisher, and she loved him.

Oh, yes. Life was good.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, hmm?" he rasped, leaning in a little closer to her. "I find myself in the unusual position of agreeing with you, Miss Fisher: that is a well thought-out plan."

Her eyes narrowed at that, but Phryne didn't reply; she'd bought some new scarves and they suddenly seemed like the perfect way to make her point. The fact that it would also be highly enjoyable for her was simply an added bonus.

"I'm so glad you agree, Inspector," she said drily. "I did plan ahead just for you, after all."

Now _his_ eyes narrowed and she chortled to herself. 'Scandalize the household' had suddenly acquired a literal meaning, it seemed. Something to look forward to.

"Come on," he said unexpectedly, taking her hand and walking with her to the car. "I want to go home."

Home. It would be loud and boisterous, angry and quiet, loving and joyful and sad and every emotion known to man. And through it all, she and Jack would have their family and each other, and they would always, _always_, have a place to return to, to belong. A _**home**__._

It was going to be beautiful.

And she couldn't wait for it to get started.

/*/*/*/*/  
_  
finis_


End file.
